THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 


OTHER  WORKS  BY 

ALGERNON  BLACKWOOD 

JULIUS  LEVALLON 

THE  WAVE :   An  Egyptian  Aftermath 
TEN  MINUTE  STORIES 
DAY  AND  NIGHT  STORIES 
THE  PROMISE  OF  AIR 
THE  GARDEN  OF  SURVIVAL 
THE  LISTENER  and  Other  Stories 
THE  EMPTY  HOUSE  and  Other  Stories 
THE  LOST  VALLEY  and  Other  Stories 
JOHN  SILENCE :  Physician  Extraordinary 

With  Violet  Pearn 
KARMA :    A  Reincarnation  Play 

With  Wilfred  Wilson 
THE  WOLVES  OF  GOD  and  other  Fey 
Stories 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


THE 

BRIGHT  MESSENGER 


BY 

ALGERNON  BLACKWOOD 

AUTHOR  OF 

"  JULIUS  LEVALLON,"  "  THE  WOLVES  OF  GOD,"  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1   FIFTH  AVENUE 


Copyright  1922,  by 
E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 


All  Right*  Reserved 


Printed  tn  the  United  State*  of  America 


the  Unstable 


2078470 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 


CHAPTER  I 

EDWARD  FILLERY,  so  far  as  may  be  possible  to  a 
man  of  normal  passions  and  emotions,  took  a  detached 
view  of  life  and  human  nature.  At  the  age  of  thirty-eight 
he  still  remained  a  spectator,  a  searching,  critical,  analytical, 
yet  chiefly,  perhaps,  a  sympathetic  spectator,  before  the 
great  performance  whose  stage  is  the  planet  and  whose 
performers  and  auditorium  are  humanity. 

Knowing  himself  outcast,  an  unwelcome  deadhead  at 
the  play,  he  had  yet  felt  no  bitterness  against  the  parents 
whose  fierce  illicit  passion  had  deprived  him  of  an  honour- 
able seat.  The  first  shock  of  resentment  over,  he  had  faced 
the  situation  with  a  tolerance  which  showed  an  unusual 
charity,  an  exceptional  understanding,  in  one  so  young. 

He  was  twenty  when  he  learned  the  truth  about  him- 
self. And  it  was  his  wondering  analysis  as  to  why  two 
loving  humans  could  be  so  careless  of  their  offspring's 
welfare,  when  the  rest  of  Nature  took  such  pains  in  the 
matter,  that  first  betrayed,  perhaps,  his  natural  aptitude. 
He  had  the  innate  gift  of  seeing  things  as  they  were, 
undisturbed  by  personal  emotion,  while  yet  asking  himself 
with  scientific  accuracy  why  and  how  they  came  to  be 
so.  These  were  invaluable  qualities  in  the  line  of  knowledge 
and  research  he  chose  for  himself  as  psychologist  and 
doctor.  The  terms  are  somewhat  loose.  His  longing  was 
to  probe  the  motives  of  conduct  in  the  first  place,  and,  in 
the  second,  to  correct  the  results  of  wrong  conduct  by 


2  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

removing  faulty  motives.  Psychiatrist  and  healer,  there- 
fore, were  his  more  accurate  titles;  psychiatrist  and  healer, 
in  due  course,  he  became. 

His  father,  an  engineer  of  ability  and  enterprise,  pros- 
pecting in  the  remoter  parts  of  the  Caucasus  for  copper, 
and  making  a  comfortable  fortune  in  so  doing,  was  carried 
off  his  feet  suddenly  by  the  beauty  of  a  Khaketian  peasant 
girl,  daughter  of  a  shepherd  in  these  lonely  and  majestic 
mountains,  whose  intolerable  grandeur  may  well  intoxicate 
a  man  to  madness.  A  dangerous  and  disgraceful  episode 
it  seems  to  have  been  between  John  Fillery,  hitherto  of 
steady  moral  fibre,  and  this  strange,  lovely  pagan  girl, 
whose  savage  father  hunted  the  pair  of  them  high  and  low 
for  weeks  before  they  finally  eluded  him  in  the  azalea 
valleys  beyond  Artvine. 

Great  passion,  possibly  great  love,  born  of  this  enchanted 
land  whose  peaks  touch  heaven,  while  their  lower  turfy 
slopes  are  carpeted  with  lilies,  azaleas,  rhododendrons,  con- 
tributed to  the  birth  of  Edward,  who  first  saw  the  light  in 
a  secret  chamber  of  a  dirty  Tiflis  house,  above  the  Koura 
torrent.  That  same  night,  when  the  sun  dipped  beneath 
the  Black  Sea  waters  two  hundred  miles  to  the  westward, 
his  mother  had  looked  for  the  last  time  upon  her  northern 
lover  and  her  wild  Caucasian  mountains. 

Edward,  however,  persisted,  visible  emblem  of  a  few 
weeks'  primal  passion  in  a  primal  land.  Intense  desire, 
born  in  this  remote  wilderness  of  amazing  loveliness,  lent 
him,  perhaps,  a  strain  of  illicit,  almost  unearthly  yearning, 
•a  secret  nostalgia  for  some  lost  vale  of  beauty  that  held 
fiercer  sunshine,  mightier  winds  and  fairer  flowers  than 
those  he  knew  in  this  world. 

At  the  age  of  four  he  was  brought  to  England ;  his 
Russian  memories  faded,  though  not  the  birthright  of  his 
primitive  blood.  Settling  in  London,  his  father  increased 
his  fortune  as  consulting  engineer,  but  did  not  marry.  To 
the  short  vehement  episode  he  had  given  of  his  very  best; 
he  remained  true  to  his  gorgeous  memory  and  his  sin;  the 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  3 

cream  of  his  life,  its  essence  and  its  perfume,  had  been 
spent  in  those  wild  wind-swept  azalea  valleys  beyond 
Artvine.  The  azalea  honey  was  in  his  blood,  the  scent  of 
the  lilies  in  his  brain;  he  still  heard  the  Koura  and  Rion 
foaming  down  towards  ancient  Colchis.  Edward  embodied 
for  him  the  spirit  of  these  sweet,  passionate  memories.  He 
loved  the  boy,  he  cherished  and  he  spoilt  him. 

But  Edward  had  stuff  in  him  that  rendered  spoiling 
harmless.  A  vigorous,  independent  youngster,  he  showed 
firmness  and  character  as  a  lad.  To  the  delight  of  his 
father  he  knew  his  own  mind  early,  reading  and  studying 
on  his  own  account,  possessed  at  the  same  time  by  a 
vehement  love  of  nature  and  outdoor  life  that  was  far 
more  than  the  average  English  boy's  inclination  to  open 
air  and  sport.  There  lay  some  primal  quality  in  his  blood 
that  was  of  ancient  origin  and  leaned  towards  wildness. 
There  seemed  almost,  at  the  same  time,  a  faunish  strain 
that  turned  away  from  life. 

As  a  tiny  little  fellow  he  had  that  strange  touch  of 
creative  imagination  other  children  have  also  known — an 
invisible  playmate.  It  had  no  name,  as  it,  apparently,  had 
no  sex.  The  boy's  father  could  trace  it  directly  to  no  fairy 
tale  read  or  heard;  its  origin  in  the  child's  mind  remained 
a  mystery.  But  its  characteristics  were  unusual,  even  for 
such  fanciful  imaginings :  too  full-fledged  to  have  been 
created  gradually  by  the  boy's  loneliness,  it  seemed  half 
goblin  and  half  Nature-spirit;  it  replaced,  at  any  rate,  the 
little  brothers  and  sisters  who  were  not  there,  and  the 
father,  led  by  his  conscience,  possibly,  to  divine  or  half 
divine  its  origin,  met  the  pretence  with  sympathetic  encour- 
agement. 

It  came  usually  with  the  wind,  moreover,  and  went  with 
the  wind,  and  wind  accordingly  excited  the  child.  "Listen ! 
Father !"  he  would  exclaim  when  no  air  was  moving  any- 
where and  the  day  was  still  as  death.  Then:  "Plop!  So 
there  you  are!"  as  though  it  had  dropped  through  empty 
space  and  landed  at  his  feet.  "It  came  from  a  tremenjus 


4  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

height,"  the  child  explained.  "The  wind's  up  there,  you 
see,  to-day."  Which  struck  the  parent's  mind  as  odd,  be- 
cause it  proved  later  true.  An  upper  wind,  far  in  the 
higher  strata  of  air,  came  down  an  hour  or  so  afterwards 
and  blew  into  a  storm. 

Fire  and  flowers,  too,  were  connected  with  this  invisible 
playmate.  "He'll  make  it  burn,  father,"  the  child  said 
convincingly,  when  the  chimney  smoked  and  the  coals 
refused  to  catch,  and  then  became  very  busy  with  his  friend 
in  the  grate  and  about  the  hearth,  just  as  though  he  helped 
and  superintended  what  was  being  invisibly  accomplished. 
"It's  burning  better,  anyhow,"  agreed  the  father,  astonished 
in  spite  of  himself  as  the  coals  began  to  glow  and  spurt 
their  gassy  flames.  "Well  done;  I  am  very  much  obliged 
to  you  and  your  little  friend." 

"But  it's  the  only  thing  he  can  do.  He  likes  it.  It's 
his  work  really,  don't  you  see — keeping  up  the  heat  in 
things." 

"Oh,  it's  his  natural  job,  is  it?  I  see,  yes.  But  my 
thanks  to  him,  all  the  same." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  grave  Edward,  aged  five, 
addressing  his  tiny  friend  among  the  fire-irons.  "I'm  much 
mobliged  to  you." 

Edward  was  a  bit  older  when  the  flower  incident  took 
place — with  the  geranium  that  no  amount  of  care  and 
coaxing  seemed  able  to  keep  alive.  It  had  been  dying  slowly 
for  some  days,  when  Edward  announced  that  he  saw  its 
"inside"  flitting  about  the  plant,  but  unable  to  get  back 
into  it.  "It's  got  out,  you  see,  and  can't  get  back  into  its 
body  again,  so  it's  dying." 

"Well,  what  in  the  world  are  we  to  do  about  it?"  asked 
his  father. 

"I'll  ask,"  was  the  solemn  reply.  "Now  I  know!"  he 
cried,  delighted,  after  asking  his  question  of  the  empty 
air  and  listening  for  the  answer.  "Of  course.  Now  I  see. 
Look,  father,  there  it  is — its  spirit!"  He  stood  beside  the 
flower  and  pointed  to  the  earth  in  the  pot. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  5 

"Dear  me,  yes!  Where  d'you  see  it?  I— don't  see  it 
quite." 

"He  says  I  can  pick  it  up  and  put  it  back  and  then  the 
flower  will  live."  The  child  put  out  a  hand  as  though 
picking  up  something  that  moved  quickly  about  the  stem. 

"What's  it  look  like?"  asked  his  father  quickly. 

"Oh,  sort  of  trinangles  and  things  with  lines  and  corners," 
was  the  reply,  making  a  gesture  as  though  he  caught  it 
and  popped  it  back  into  the  red  drooping  blossoms.  "There 
you  are !  Now  you're  alive  again.  Thank  you  very  much, 
please" — this  last  remark  to  the  invisible  playmate  who 
was  superintending. 

"A  sort  of  geometrical  figure,  was  it?"  inquired  the 
father  next  day,  when,  to  his  surprise,  he  found  the 
geranium  blooming  in  full  health  and  beauty  once  again. 
"That's  what  you  saw,  eh  ?" 

"It  was  its  spirit,  and  it  was  shiny  red,  like  fire,"  the 
child  replied.  "It's  heat.  Without  these  things  there'd  be 
no  flowers  at  all." 

"Who  makes  everything  grow?"  he  asked  suddenly,  a 
moment  later. 

"You  mean  what  makes  them  grow." 

"Who,"  he  repeated  with  emphasis.  "Who  builds  the 
bodies  up  and  looks  after  them?" 

"Ah !  the  structure,  you  mean,  the  form  ?" 

Edward  nodded.  His  father  had  the  feeling  he  was  not 
being  asked  for  information,  but  was  being  cross-examined. 
A  faint  pressure,  as  of  uneasiness,  touched  him. 

"They  develop  automatically — that  means  naturally, 
under  the  laws  of  nature,"  he  replied. 

"And  the  laws — who  keeps  them  working  properly?" 

The  father,  with  a  mental  gulp,  replied  that  God  did. 

"A  beetle's  body,  for  instance,  or  a  daisy's  or  an 
elephant's?"  persisted  the  child  undeceived  by  the  theolog- 
ical evasion.  "Or  mine,  or  a  mountain's ?" 

John  Fillery  racked  his  brain  for  an  answer,  while 
Edward  continued  his  list  to  include  sea-anemones,  frost- 


6  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

patterns,  fire,  wind,  moon,  sun  and  stars.  All  these  forms 
to  him  were  bodies  apparently. 

"I  know !"  he  exclaimed  suddenly  with  intense  convic- 
tion, clapping  his  hands  together  and  standing  on  his  toes. 

"Do  you,  indeed!  Then  you  know  more  than  the  rest 
of  us." 

"They  do,  of  course,"  came  the  positive  announcement. 
"The  other  kind!  It's  their  work.  Yours,  for  instance" 
— he  turned  to  his  playmate,  but  so  naturally  and  convinc- 
ingly that  a  chill  ran  down  his  father's  spine  as  he  watched 
— "is  fire,  isn't  it  ?  You  showed  me  once.  And  water  stops 
you,  but  wind  helps  you  ..."  and  he  continued  long  after 
his  father  had  left  the  room. 

With  advancing  years,  however,  Edward  either  forgot 
his  playmate  or  kept  its  activities  to  himself.  He  no  longer 
referred  to  it,  at  any  rate.  His  energies  demanded  a  bigger 
field;  he  roamed  the  fields  and  woods,  climbed  the  hills, 
stayed  out  all  night  to  see  the  sunrise,  made  fires  even  when 
fires  were  not  exactly  needed,  and  hunted  with  Red  Indians 
and  with  what  he  called  "Windy-Fire  people"  everywhere. 
He  was  never  hi  the  house.  He  ran  wild.  Great  open 
spaces,  trees  and  flowers  were  what  he  liked.  The  sea, 
on  the  other  hand,  alarmed  him.  Only  wind  and  fire 
comforted  him  and  made  him  happy  and  full  of  life.  He 
was  a  playmate  of  wind  and  fire.  Water,  in  large  quantities 
at  any  rate,  was  inimical. 

With  concealed  approval,  masking  a  deep  love  fulfilled 
yet  incomplete,  his  father  watched  the  growth  of  this  fiercer 
strain  that  mere  covert  shooting  could  not  satisfy,  nor 
ordinary  sporting  holidays  appease. 

"England's  too  small  for  you,  Edward,  isn't  it  ?"  he  asked 
once  tentatively,  when  the  boy  was  about  fifteen. 

"The  English  people,  you  mean,  father?" 

"You  find  them  dull,  don't  you?  And  the  island  a  bit 
cramped — eh  ?" 

Edward  waited  without  replying.  He  did  not  quite  under- 
stand what  his  indulgent  father  intended,  or  was  leading 
up  to. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  7 

"You'd  like  to  travel  and  see  things  and  people  for  your- 
self, I  mean?" 

He  watched  the  boy  without,  as  he  thought,  the  latter 
noticing.  The  answer  pleased  but  puzzled  him. 

"We're  all  much  the  same,  aren't  we?"  said  Ed- 
ward. 

"Well — with  differences — yes,  we  are.    But  still " 

"It's  only  the  same  over  and  over  again,  isn't  it  ?"  Then, 
while  his  father  was  thinking  of  this  reply,  and  of  what 
he  should  say  to  it,  the  boy  asked  suddenly  with  arresting 
intensity : 

"Are  we  the  only  people — the  only  sort  of  beings,  I 
mean?  Just  men  and  women  like  us  all  over  the  world? 
No  others  of  any  sort — bigger,  for  instance,  or — more  wild 
and  wonderful?"  Then  he  added,  a  thrust  of  strange 
yearning  in  his  face  and  eyes:  "More  beautiful?"  He 
almost  whispered  the  last  words. 

His  father  winced.  He  divined  the  origin  of  that  strange 
inquiry.  Upon  those  immense  and  lonely  mountains,  distant 
in  space  and  time  for  him,  imagination,  rich  and  pagan, 
ran,  he  well  knew,  to  vast  and  mighty  beings,  superior  to 
human,  benignant  and  maleficent,  akin  to  the  stimulating 
and  exhilarating  conception  of  the  gods,  and  certainly  non- 
human. 

"Nothing,  Edward,  that  we  know  of.  Why  should  there 
be?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,  dad,  I  just  wondered — sometimes. 
But,  as  you  say,  we've  not  a  scrap  of  evidence,  of  course." 

"Not  a  scrap,"  agreed  his  father.  "Poetic  legends  ain't 
evidence." 

The  mind  ruled  the  heart  in  Edward ;  he  had  his  father's 
brains,  at  any  rate ;  and  all  his  powers  and  longings  focused 
in  a  single  line  that  indicated  plainly  what  his  career  should 
be.  The  Public  Schools  could  help  him  little;  he  went  to 
Edinburgh  to  study  medicine;  he  passed  eventually  with 
all  possible  honours;  and  the  day  he  brought  home  the 
news  his  father,  dying,  told  him  the  secret  of  his  illegitimate 
birth. 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  subsequent  twenty  years  or  so  may  be  sum- 
marized. 

Alone  in  the  world,  of  a  loving,  passionate  nature,  he 
deliberately  set  all  thought  of  marriage  on  one  side  as  an 
impossibility,  and  directed  his  entire  energy  into  the  acquire- 
ment of  knowledge;  reading,  studying,  experimenting  far 
outside  the  circle  of  the  ordinary  medical  man.  The  attitude 
of  detachment  he  had  adopted  became  a  habit.  He  be- 
lieved it  was  now  his  nature. 

The  more  he  learned  of  human  frailty  and  human  facul- 
ties, the  greater  became  the  charity  he  felt  towards  his 
fellow-kind.  In  his  own  being,  it  seemed,  lay  something 
big,  sweet,  simple,  a  generosity  that  longed  to  share  with 
others,  a  tolerance  more  ready  to  acquit  than  to  condemn, 
above  all,  a  great  gift  of  understanding  sympathy  that, 
doubtless,  was  the  explanation  of  his  singular  insight. 
Rarely  he  found  it  in  him  to  blame;  forgiveness,  based 
upon  the  increasing  extent  of  his  experience,  seemed  his 
natural  view  of  human  mistakes  and  human  infirmities. 
His  one  desire,  his  one  hope,  was  to  serve  the  Race. 

Yet  he  himself  remained  aloof.  He  watched  the  Play 
but  took  no  part  in  it.  This  forgiveness,  too,  began  at 
home.  His  grievance  had  not  soured  or  dejected  him,  his 
father's  error  presenting  itself  as  a  problem  to  be  pondered 
over,  rather  than  a  sin  to  blame.  Some  day,  he  promised 
himself,  he  would  go  and  see  with  his  own  eyes  the 
Khaketian  tribe  whence  his  blood  was  partially  derived, 
whence  his  un-English  yearnings  for  a  wilder  scale  of 
personal  freedom  amid  an  unstained,  majestic  Nature  were 
first  stolen.  The  inherited  picture  of  a  Caucasian  vale  of 
loveliness  and  liberty  lay,  indeed,  very  deep  in  his  nature, 

8 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  9 

emerging  always  like  a  symbol  when  he  was  profoundly 
moved.  At  any  crisis  in  his  life  it  rose  beckoning,  seductive, 
haunting  beyond  words  .  .  .  Curious,  ill-defined  emotions 
with  it,  that  drove  him  towards  another  standard,  another 
state,  to  something,  at  any  rate,  he  could  neither  name  nor 
visualize,  yet  that  seemed  to  dwarf  the  only  life  he  knew. 
About  it  was  a  touch  of  strange  unearthly  radiance  that 
dimmed  existence  as  he  knew  it.  The  shine  went  out  of 
it.  There  was  involved  in  this  symbolic  "Valley"  some- 
thing wholly  new  both  in  colour,  sound  and  outline,  yet 
that  remained  obstinately  outside  definition. 

First,  however,  he  must  work,  develop  himself,  and 
broaden,  deepen,  extend  in  every  possible  way  the  knowledge 
of  his  kind  that  seemed  his  only  love. 

He  began  in  a  very  practical  way,  setting  up  his  plate 
in  a  mean  quarter  of  the  great  metropolis,  healing,  helping, 
learning  with  his  heart  as  well  as  with  his  brain,  observing 
life  at  closest  quarters  from  its  beginning  to  its  close,  his 
sympathies  becoming  enriched  the  more  he  saw,  and  his 
mind  groping  its  way  towards  clearer  insight  the  more  he 
read,  thought,  studied.  His  wealth  made  him  independent; 
his  tastes  were  simple;  his  wants  few.  He  observed  the 
great  Play  from  the  Pit  and  Gallery,  from  the  Wings, 
from  Behind  the  Scenes  as  well. 

Moving  then,  into  the  Stalls,  into  a  wealthier  neighbour- 
hood, that  is,  he  repeated  the  experience  among  another 
class,  finding,  however,  little  difference  except  in  the  greater 
artificiality  of  his  types,  the  larger  proportion  of  mental 
and  nervous  ailments,  of  hysteria,  delusion,  imaginary 
troubles,  and  the  like.  The  infirmities  due  to  idleness, 
enflamed  vanity  and  luxury  offered  a  new  field,  though  to 
him  a  less  attractive  one.  The  farther  from  simplicity, 
from  the  raw  facts  of  living,  the  more  complicated,  yet 
the  more  trivial,  the  resulting  disabilities.  These,  however, 
were  quite  as  real  as  those,  and  harder,  indeed,  to  cure. 
Idle  imagination,  fostered  by  opportunity  and  means,  yet 
forced  by  conventionality  to  wear  infinite  disguises,  brought 


10  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

a  strange,  if  far  from  a  noble,  crop  of  disorders  into  his 
ken.  Yet  he  accepted  them  for  serious  treatment,  whatever 
his  private  opinion  may  have  been,  while  his  patience,  tact 
and  sympathy,  backed  by  his  insight  and  great  knowledge, 
brought  him  quick  success.  He  was  soon  in  a  fair  way  to 
become  a  fashionable  doctor. 

But  the  field,  he  found,  was  restricted  somewhat.  His 
quest  was  knowledge,  not  fame  or  money.  He  chose  his 
cases  where  he  could,  though  actually  refusing  nothing.  He 
specialized  more  and  more  with  afflictions  of  a  mental  kind. 
He  was  immensely  successful  in  restoring  proportion  out 
of  disorder.  He  revealed  people  to  themselves.  He  taught 
them  to  recover  lost  hope  and  confidence.  He  used  little 
medicine,  but  stimulated  the  will  towards  a  revival  of  fad- 
ing vitality.  Auto-suggestion,  rather  than  suggestion  or 
hypnotism,  was  his  method.  He  healed.  He  began  to  be 
talked  about. 

Then,  suddenly,  his  house  was  sold,  his  plate  was  taken 
down,  he  vanished. 

Human  beings  object  to  sudden  changes  whose  secret 
they  have  not  been  told  and  cannot  easily  guess ;  his  abrupt 
disappearance  caused  talk  and  rumours,  led,  of  course,  by 
those,  chiefly  disappointed  women,  who  had  most  reason 
to  be  grateful  for  past  services.  But,  if  the  words  charlatan 
and  quack  were  whispered,  he  did  not  hear  them;  he  had 
taken  the  post  of  assistant  in  a  lunatic  asylum  in  a  northern 
town,  because  the  work  promised  him  increase  of  knowledge 
and  experience  in  his  own  particular  field.  The  talk  he  left 
behind  him  mattered  as  little  as  the  small  pay  attached 
to  the  humble  duties  he  had  accepted. 

London  forgot  him,  but  he  did  not  forget  what  London 
had  taught  him. 

A  new  field  opened,  and  in  less  than  two  years,  oppor- 
tunity, combined  with  his  undoubted  qualifications,  saw 
him  Head  of  an  establishment  where  he  could  observe  at 
first  hand  the  facts  and  phenomena  that  interested  him 
most.  Humane  treatment,  backed  by  profound  insight  into 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  11 

the  derangements  of  the  poor  human  creatures  under  his 
charge,  brought  the  place  into  a  fame  it  had  never  known 
before.  He  spent  five  years  there  in  profound  study  and 
experiment;  he  achieved  new  results  and  published  them. 
His  Experimental  Psychology  caused  a  sensation.  His 
name  was  known.  He  was  an  Authority. 

At  this  time  he  was  well  past  thirty,  a  tall,  dark,  dis- 
tinguished-looking man,  of  appearance  grave  and  even 
sombre;  imposing,  too,  with  his  quiet,  piercing  eyes,  but 
sombre  only  until  the  smile  lit  up  his  somewhat  rugged 
face.  It  was  a  face  that  nobody  could  lie  to,  but  to  that 
smile  the  suffering  heart  might  tell  its  inmost  secrets  with 
confidence,  hope,  trust,  and  without  reserve. 

There  followed  several  years  abroad,  in  Paris,  Rome, 
St.  Petersburg,  Moscow ;  Vienna  and  Zurich  he  also  visited 
to  test  there  certain  lines  of  research  and  to  meet  personally 
their  originators. 

This  period  was  partly  a  holiday,  partly  an  opportunity 
to  know  at  first  hand  the  leaders  in  mental  therapeutics, 
psychology  and  the  rest,  and  also  that  he  might  find  time 
to  digest  and  arrange  his  own  accumulation  of  knowledge 
with  a  view,  later,  to  undertaking  the  life-work  to  which 
his  previous  experience  was  but  preliminary.  Fame  had 
come  to  him  unsought;  his  published  works  alone  ensured 
his  going  down  to  posterity  as  a  careful  but  daring  and 
original  judge  of  the  human  species  and  its  possibilities. 
It  was  the  supernormal  rather  than  the  merely  abnormal 
powers  that  attracted  him.  In  the  subconscious,  as,  equally, 
in  the  superconscious,  his  deep  experience  taught  him,  lay 
amazing  powers  of  both  moral  and  physical  healing,  powers 
as  yet  but  little  understood,  powers  as  limitless  as  they 
seemed  incredible,  as  mysterious  in  their  operation  as  they 
were  simple  in  their  accessibility.  And  auto-suggestion  was 
the  means  of  using  them.  The  great  men  whom  he  visited 
welcomed  him  with  open  arms,  added  to  his  data,  widened 
yet  further  his  mental  outlook.  Sought  by  high  and  low 
in  many  countries  and  in  strangest  cases,  his  experience 


12  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

grew  and  multiplied,  his  assortment  of  unusual  knowledge 
was  far-reaching ;  till  he  stood  finally  in  wonder  and  amaze- 
ment before  the  human  being  and  its  unrealized  powers, 
and  his  optimism  concerning  the  future  progress  of  the 
race  became  more  justified  with  every  added  fact. 

Yet,  perhaps,  his  greatest  achievement  was  the  study 
of  himself ;  it  was  probably  to  this  deep,  intimate  and  honest 
research  into  his  own  being  that  his  success  in  helping  others 
was  primarily  due.  For  in  himself,  though  mastered  and 
co-ordinated  by  his  steady  will,  rendered  harmless  by  his 
saving  sense  of  humour  and  (as  he  believed)  by  the  absence 
of  any  harboured  grievance  against  others — in  his  very 
own  being  lay  all  those  potential  elements  of  disorder,  those 
loose  unravelled  threads  of  alien  impulse  and  suppressed 
desire,  which  can  make  for  dangerous  disintegration,  and 
thus  produce  the  disturbing  results  classed  generally  under 
alienation  and  neurosis. 

The  incongruous  elements  in  him  were  the  gift  of  nature ; 
yvwOt  a-eavTov  was  the  saving  attitude  he  brought  to  that 
gift,  redeeming  it.  This  phrase,  borrowed,  he  remembered 
with  a  smile,  for  the  portal  of  the  ancient  Mysteries,  re- 
mained his  watchword.  He  was  able  to  thank  the  fierce 
illicit  love  that  furnished  his  body  and  his  mental  make-up 
for  a  richer  field  of  first-hand  study  than  years  of  practice 
among  others  could  have  supplied.  He  belonged  by  tem- 
perament to  the  unstable.  But — he  was  aware  of  it.  He 
realized  the  two  beings  in  him:  the  reasoning,  scientific 
man,  and  the  speculative  dreamer,  visionary,  poet..  The 
latter  wondered,  dreamed  among  a  totally  different  set  of 
values  far  below  and  out  of  sight.  This  deeper  portion 
of  himself  was  forever  beating  up  for  recognition,  clamour- 
ing to  be  used,  yet  with  the  strange  shyness  that  reminded 
him  of  a  loving  woman  who  cannot  be  certain  her  passion 
is  returned.  It  hinted,  threatened,  wept  and  even  sulked. 
It  rose  like  a  flame,  bringing  its  own  light  and  wind,  blessed 
his  whole  being  with  some  divine  assurance,  and  then,  be- 
cause not  instantly  accepted,  it  retired,  leaving  him  empty, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  13 

his  mind  coloured  with  unearthly  yearnings,  with  poignant 
regrets,  yet  perfumed  as  though  the  fairness  of  Spring 
herself  had  lit  upon  his  heart  and  kissed  it  into  blossom 
on  her  passage  north.  It  presented  its  amazing  pictures, 
and  withdrew.  Elusive,  as  the  half  memory  of  some  radiant 
dream,  whose  wonder  and  sweetness  have  been  intense  to 
the  point  of  almost  pain,  it  hovered,  floating  just  out  of 
reach.  It  lay  waiting  for  that  sincere  belief  which  would 
convince  that  its  passion  was  returned.  And  a  fleeting 
picture  of  a  wild  Caucasian  valley,  steeped  in  sunshine  and 
flowers,  was  always  the  first  sign  of  its  awakening. 

Though  not  afraid  of  reason,  it  seemed  somehow  inde- 
pendent of  the  latter's  processes.  It  was  his  reason,  how- 
ever, he  well  knew  that  dimmed  the  light  in  its  grand, 
terrible  eyes,  causing  it  to  withdraw  the  instant  he  began 
to  question.  Precise,  formal  thinking  shut  the  engines 
off  and  damped  the  furnaces.  His  love,  his  passion,  none 
the  less,  were  there,  hiding  with  belief,  until  some  bright 
messenger,  bringing  glad  tidings,  should  reveal  the  method 
of  harmonious  union  between  reason  and  vision,  between 
man's  trivial  normal  faculties  and  his  astounding  super- 
normal possibilities. 

"This  element  of  feeling  in  our  outlook  on  Nature  is 
a  satisfaction  in  itself,  but  our  plea  for  allowing  it  to 
operate  in  our  interpretation  of  Nature  is  that  we  get  closer 
to  some  things  through  feeling  than  we  do  through  science. 
The  tendency  of  feeling  is  always  to  see  things  whole.  We 
cannot,  for  our  life's  sake,  and  for  the  sake  of  our  philo- 
sophical reconstruction,  afford  to  lose  in  scientific  analysis 
what  the  poets  and  artists  and  the  lovers  of  Nature  all  see. 
It  is  intuitively  felt,  rather  than  intellectually  perceived,  the 
vision  of  things  as  totalities,  root  and  all,  all  in  all ;  neither 
fancifully,  nor  mystically,  but  sympathetically  in  their 
wholeness/' 

To  these  words  of  Professor  T.  Arthur  Thomson's,  he 
heartily  subscribed,  applying  their  principle  to  his  own  par- 
ticular field. 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  net  result  of  his  inquiries  and  research,  when,  at 
the  age  of  nearly  forty,  he  established  his  own  Private 
Home  for  unusual,  so-called  hopeless  cases  in  North- West 
London — it  was  free  to  all,  and  as  Spiritual  Clinique  he 
thought  of  it  sometimes  with  a  smile — may  be  summed 
up  in  the  single  sentence  that  man  is  greater  than  he  knows, 
and  that  completer  realization  of  his  full  possibilities  lies 
accessible  to  his  subconscious  and  superconscious  powers. 
Herein  he  saw,  indeed,  the  chief  hope  of  progress  for 
humanity. 

And  it  was  to  the  failures,  the  diseased,  the  evil  and 
the  broken  that  he  owed  chiefly  his  inspiring  optimism, 
since  it  was  largely  in  collapse  that  occurred  the  sporadic 
upheaval  of  those  super-normal  forces  which,  controlled, 
co-ordinated,  led,  must  eventually  bring  about  the  realiza- 
tion he  foresaw. 

The  purpose,  however,  of  these  notes  is  not  to  furnish 
a  sensational  story  of  various  patients  whom  he  studied, 
healed,  or  failed  to  heal.  Its  object  is  to  give  some  details 
of  one  case  in  particular  whose  outstanding  peculiarities 
affected  his  theories  and  convictions,  leaving  him  open- 
minded  still,  but  with  a  breath  of  awe  in  his  heart  perhaps, 
before  a  possibility  his  previous  knowledge  had  ruled 
entirely  out  of  court,  even  if — which  is  doubtful — he  had 
ever  considered  it  as  a  possibility  at  all. 

He  had  realized  early  that  the  individual  manifests  but 
an  insignificant  portion  of  his  being  in  his  ordinary  existence, 
the  normal  self  being  the  tip  of  his  consciousness  only, 
yet  whose  fuller  expression  rises  readily  to  adequate  evoca- 
tion ;  and  it  was  the  study  of  genius,  of  prodigies,  so-called, 

14 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  15 

and  of  certain  faculties  shown  sometimes  in  hysteria,  that 
led  him  to  believe  these  were  small  jets  from  a  sea  of  power 
that  might,  indeed  ought,  to  be  realizable  at  will.  The 
phenomena  all  pointed,  he  believed,  to  powers  that  seemed 
as  superior  to  cerebral  functions  as  they  were  independent 
of  these. 

Man's  possible  field  of  being,  in  other  words,  seemed 
capable  of  indefinite  extension.  His  heart  glowed  within 
him  as  he  established,  step  by  step,  these  greater  powers. 
He  dared  to  foresee  a  time  when  the  limitations  of  separate 
personality  would  have  been  destroyed,  and  the  vast  brother- 
hood of  the  race  become  literally  realized,  its  practical  unity 
accomplished. 

The  difficulties  were  endless  and  discouraging.  The  in- 
ventive powers  of  the  bigger  self,  its  astonishing  faculty 
for  dramatizing  its  content  in  every  conceivable  form, 
blocked  everywhere  the  search  for  truth. 

It  could,  he  found,  also  detach  a  portion  of  its  content 
into  a  series  of  separate  personalities,  each  with  its  indi- 
vidual morals,  talents,  tendencies,  each  with  its  distinct  and 
separate  memory.  These  fragments  it  could  project,  so  to 
speak,  masquerading  convincingly  as  separate  entities,  using 
strange  languages,  offering  detailed  knowledge  of  other 
conditions,  distant  in  time  and  space,  suggesting,  indeed, 
to  the  unwary  that  they  were  due  to  obsessing  spirits,  and 
leaving  the  observer  in  wonder  before  the  potential  capacity 
of  the  central  self  disgorging  them. 

The  human  depths  included,  beyond  mere  telepathy  and 
extended  telepathy,  an  expansion  of  consciousness  so  vast 
as  to  be,  apparently,  limitless.  The  past,  on  rare  occasions 
even  the  future,  lay  open;  the  entire  planetary  memory, 
stored  with  rich  and  pregnant  accumulated  experience,  was 
accessible  and  shareable.  New  aspects  of  space  and  time 
were  equally  involved.  A  vision  of  incredible  grandeur 
opened  gradually  before  his  eyes. 

The  surface  consciousness  of  to-day  was  really  rather 
a  trumpery  affair;  the  gross  lethargy  of  the  vast  majority 


16  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

vis  a  vis  the  greater  possibilities  afflicted  him.  To  this 
surface  consciousness  alone  was  so-called  evil  possible — 
as  ignorance.  As  "ugly  is  only  half-way  to  a  thing,"  so 
evil  is  half-way  to  good.  With  the  greater  powers  must 
come  greater  knowledge,  shared  as  by  instantaneous  wire- 
less over  the  entire  planet,  and  misunderstanding,  chief 
obstacle  to  progress  always,  would  be  impossible.  A  huge 
unity,  sense  of  oneness  must  follow.  Moral  growth  would 
accompany  the  increase  of  faculty.  And  here  and  there, 
it  seemed  to  him,  the  surface  ice  had  thawed  already  a 
little;  the  pressure  of  the  great  deeps  below  caused  cracks 
and  fissures.  Auto-suggestion,  prototype  of  all  suggestion, 
offered  mysterious  hints  of  the  way  to  reach  the  stupendous 
underworld,  as  the  Christian  Scientists,  the  miraculous 
healers,  the  New  Thought  movement,  saints,  prophets,  poets, 
artists,  were  finding  out. 

The  subliminal,  to  state  it  shortly,  might  be  the  divine. 
This  was  the  hope,  though  not  yet  the  actual  belief,  that 
haunted  and  inspired  him.  Behind  his  personality  lurked 
this  strange  gigantic  dream,  ever  beating  to  get  through.  .  .  . 

In  his  Private  Home,  helping,  healing,  using  his  great 
gifts  of  sympathy  and  insight,  he  at  the  same  time  found 
the  material  for  intimate  study  and  legitimate  experiment 
he  sought.  The  building  had  been  altered  to  suit  his  exact 
requirements;  there  were  private  suites,  each  with  its  door 
and  staircase  to  the  street ;  one  part  of  it  provided  his  own 
living  quarters,  shut  off  entirely  from  the  patients'  side; 
in  another,  equally  cut  off  and  self-contained,  yet  within 
easy  communication  of  his  own  rooms,  lived  Paul  Devon- 
ham,  his  valued  young  assistant.  There  was  a  third  private 
suite  as  well.  The  entire  expenses  he  defrayed  himself. 

Here,  then,  for  a  year  or  two  he  worked  indefatigably, 
with  the  measure  of  success  and  failure  he  anticipated; 
here  he  dreamed  his  great  dream  of  the  future  of  the  race, 
in  whose  progress  and  infinite  capacities  he  hopefully  be- 
lieved. Work  was  his  love,  the  advancement  of  humanity 
his  god.  The  war  availed  itself  of  his  great  powers,  as 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  17 

also  of  his  ready-made  establishment,  both  of  which  he  gave 
without  a  thought  of  self.  New  material  came  as  well 
from  the  battlefields  into  his  ken. 

The  effect  of  the  terrible  five  years  upon  him  was  in 
direct  proportion  to  his  sincerity.  His  mind  was  not  the 
type  that  shirks  conclusions,  nor  fears  to  look  facts  in  the 
face.  For  really  new  knowledge  he  was  ever  ready  to  yield 
all  previous  theories,  to  scrap  all  he  had  held  hitherto  for 
probable.  His  mind  was  open,  he  sought  only  Truth. 

The  war,  above  all  the  Peace,  shook  his  optimism.  If 
it  did  not  wholly  shatter  his  belief  in  human  progress,  it 
proved  such  progress  to  be  so  slow  that  his  Utopia  faded 
into  remotest  distance,  and  his  dream  of  perfectibility  be- 
came the  faintest  possible  star  in  his  hitherto  bright  sky 
of  hope. 

He  felt  shocked  and  stupefied.  The  reaction  was  greater 
than  at  first  he  realized.  He  had  often  pitied  the  mind 
that,  aware  only  of  its  surface  consciousness,  uninformed 
by  thrill  or  shift  of  the  great  powers  below  and  above,  lived 
unwarned  of  its  own  immenser  possibilities.  To  such,  the 
evidence  for  extended  human  faculties  must  seem  explicable 
by  fraud,  illusion,  derangement,  to  be  classed  as  abnormal 
rubbish  worthy  only  of  the  alienist's  attention  as  diseases. 
To  him  such  minds,  though  able,  with  big  intellects  among 
them,  had  ever  seemed  a  prejudiced,  fossilized,  prehistoric 
type.  Restricted  by  their  very  nature,  violently  resisting 
new  ideas,  they  might  be  intense  within  their  actual  scope, 
but,  with  vision  denied  them,  they  never  could  be  really 
great. 

One  effect  of  the  shock  he  had  undergone  will  be  evident 
by  merely  stating  that  he  now  understood  this  type  of  mind 
a  good  deal  better  than  before. 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  war  was  over,  though  the  benefits  of  the  long 
anticipated  peace  still  kept  provocatively,  exasperat- 
ingly,  out  of  reach,  when,  about  the  middle  of  September, 
Dr.  Fillery  received  a  letter  that  interested  him  deeply. 

The  shattered  world  was  still  distraught,  uneasy. 
Nervously  eager  to  resume  its  former  activities,  it  was  yet 
waiting  for  the  word  that  should  give  it  the  necessary  con- 
fidence to  begin.  Doubt,  insecurity,  uncertainty  everywhere 
dominated  human  minds.  Those  who  hoped  for  a  renewal 
of  the  easy,  careless  mood  of  pre-war  days  were  dismayed 
to  find  this  was  impossible;  others  who  had  allowed  an 
optimistic  idealism  to  prophesy  a  New  Age,  looked  about 
them  bewilderingly  and  in  vain  for  signs  of  its  fair  birth. 
The  latter,  to  whom,  perhaps,  Dr.  Fillery  belonged,  were 
more  bitterly  disappointed,  more  cruelly  shocked,  than  the 
former.  The  race,  it  seemed  to  many  unshirking  eyes,  had 
leaped  back  centuries  at  a  single  spring;  the  gulf  of  primal 
savagery  which  had  gaped  wide  open  for  five  years,  prov- 
ing the  Stone  Age  close  beneath  the  surface  of  so-called 
civilization,  had  not  yet  fully  closed.  Its  jaws  still  dripped 
blood,  hatred,  selfishness ;  the  Race  was  still  dislocated  by 
the  convincing  disproof  of  progress,  horrified  at  the  fierce 
reality  which  had  displaced  the  two-pence  coloured  dream 
it  had  been  complacently  worshipping  hitherto.  Men  in 
the  mass  undoubtedly  were  savages  still. 

To  Dr.  Fillery,  an  honest,  though  not  a  necessarily  funda- 
mental pessimism,  seemed  justified.  He  believed  in  progress 
still,  but  as  his  habit  was,  he  faced  the  facts.  His  attitude 
lost  something  of  its  original  enthusiasm.  Looking  about 
him,  he  saw  no  big  constructive  movement ;  the  figure  who 

18 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  19 

more  than  any  other  was  altering  the  face  of  the  world 
with  his  ideas  as  well  as  his  armies,  was  avowedly  de- 
structive only.  He  found  himself  a  sobered  and  a  saddened 
man. 

His  Private  Home,  having  accomplished  splendid  work, 
had  just  discharged  its  last  shell-shocked  patient;  it  was 
now  empty  again,  the  staff,  carefully  chosen  and  proved 
by  long  service,  dismissed  on  holidays,  the  building  itself 
renovated  and  repaired  against  the  arrival  later  of  new 
patients  that  were  expected. 

Devonham,  his  assistant,  away  for  a  period  of  rest  in 
Switzerland,  would  be  back  in  a  week  or  two,  and  Dr. 
Fillery,  before  resuming  his  normal  work,  found  himself 
with  little  to  do  but  watch  the  progress  of  the  cleaners, 
painters  and  carpenters  at  work. 

Into  this  brief  time  of  leisure  dropped  the  strange,  per- 
plexing letter  with  an  effect  distinctly  stimulating.  It 
promised  an  unusual  case,  a  patient,  if  patient  the  case 
referred  to  could  properly  be  called,  a  young  man  "who  if 
you  decide  after  careful  reflection  to  reject,  can  be  looked 
after  only  by  the  State,  which  means,  of  course,  an  Asylum 
for  the  Insane.  I  know  you  are  no  longer  head  of  the 
Establishment  in  Liverpool,  but  that  you  confine  yourself 
to  private  work  along  similar  lines,  though  upon  a  smaller 
scale,  and  that  you  welcome  only  cases  that  have  been 
given  up  as  hopeless.  I  honour  your  courage  and  your 
sympathy,  I  know  your  skill.  So  far  as  a  cure  is  conceiv- 
able, this  one  is  hopeless  certainly,  but  its  unusual,  indeed, 
its  unique  character,  entitles  it,  I  believe,  to  be  placed  among 
your  chosen  few.  Love,  sympathy,  patience,  combined  with 
the  closest  observation,  it  urgently  demands,  and  these 
qualities,  associated  with  unrivalled  skill,  you  must  allow 
me,  again,  to  think  you  alone  possess  among  healers  and 
helpers  of  strange  minds. 

"For  over  twenty  years,  in  the  solitudes  of  these  Jura 
forests  and  mountains,  I  have  cared  for  him  as  best  I 
could,  and  with  a  devotion  a  child  of  my  own  might  have 


20  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

expected.  But  now,  my  end  not  far  away,  I  cannot  leave 
him  behind  me  here  uncared  for,  yet  the  alternative,  the 
impersonal  and  formal  care  of  an  Institute,  must  break 
my  heart  and  his.  I  turn  to  you. 

"My  advanced  age  and  growing  infirmities,  in  these  days 
of  unkind  travel,  prohibit  my  bringing  him  over.  Can  your 
great  heart  suggest  a  means,  since  I  feel  sure  you  will  not 
refuse  the  care  of  this  strange  being  whose  nature  and 
peculiarities  indicate  your  especial  care,  and  yours  alone? 
Is  it  too  much  to  wonder  if  you  yourself  could  come  and 
see  him — here  in  the  remote  mountain  chalet  where  I  have 
tended  and  cared  for  him  ever  since  his  mother  died  in 
bearing  him  over  twenty  years  ago  ? 

"I  have  taught  him  what  seemed  wise  and  best;  I  have 
guarded  and  observed  him;  he  knows  little  or  nothing  of 
an  outside  world  of  men  and  women,  and  is  ignorant  of 
life  in  the  ordinary  meaning  of  the  word.  What  precisely 
he  may  be,  to  what  stratum  of  consciousness  he  belongs, 
what  kind  of  being  he  is,  I  mean.  .  .  ."  The  last  two  lines 
were  then  scored  through,  though  left  legible.  "I  feel  with 
Arago,  that  he  is  a  rash  man  who  pronounces  the  word 
'impossible'  anywhere  outside  the  sphere  of  pure  mathe- 
matics." More  sentences  were  here  scored  through. 

"Dare  I  say — to  you,  as  master,  teacher,  great  open- 
minded  soul — that  to  human  life,  as  we  know  it,  he  does 
not,  perhaps,  belong? 

"In  writing — in  this  letter — I  find  it  impossible  to  give 
you  full  details.  I  had  intended  to  set  them  down;  my 
pen  refuses;  in  the  plain  English  at  my  disposal — well, 
simply,  it  is  not  credible.  But  I  have  kept  full  notes  all 
these  years,  and  the  notes  belong  to  you.  I  enclose  an 
imperfect  painting  I  made  of  him  some  four  years  ago. 
I  am  no  artist;  for  background  you  must  imagine  what 
lay  beyond  my  little  skill — the  blazing  glory  of  the  immense 
wood-fires  that  he  loves  to  make  upon  the  open  mountain 
side,  usually  at  dawn  after  a  night  of  prayer  and  singing, 
while  waiting  for  the  strange  power  he  derives  (as  we  all 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  21 

do,  indeed,  at  second  or  third  hand),  from  the  worship  of 
what  is  to  him  his  mighty  father,  the  life-giving  sun.  Wind, 
as  the  'messengers'  of  the  sun,  he  worships  too.  .  .  .  Both 
sun  and  wind,  that  is,  produce  an  unusual  state  approach- 
ing ecstasy. 

"Counting  upon  you,  I  have  hypnotized  him,  suggesting 
that  he  forget  all  the  immediate  past  (in  fact  to  date),  and 
telling  him  he  will  like  you  in  place  of  me — though  with 
him  it  is  an  uncertain  method. 

"I  am  now  old  in  years.  I  have  lived  and  loved,  suffered 
and  dreamed  like  most  of  us ;  my  hands  have  been  warmed 
at  the  fires  of  life,  of  which,  let  me  add,  I  am  not  ignorant. 
You  have  known,  I  believe,  my  serious,  as  also  my  lighter 
imaginative  books ;  my  occasional  correspondence  with  your 
colleague  Paul  Devonham  has  been  of  help  and  guidance 
to  me.  We  are  not,  therefore,  wholly  strangers. 

"The  twenty  years  spent  in  these  solitudes  among  simple 
peasant  folk,  with  a  single  object  of  devotion  to  fill  my 
days,  have  been,  I  would  tell  you,  among  the  best  of  my 
long  existence.  My  renouncement  of  the  world  was  no 
renouncement.  I  am  enriched  with  wonder  and  experience 
that  amaze  me,  for  the  world  holds  possibilities  few  have 
ever  dreamed  of,  and  that  I  myself,  filled  as  I  am  with  the 
memory  of  their  contemplation,  can  hardly  credit  even  now. 
Perhaps  in  an  earlier  stage  of  evolution,  as  Delboeuf  be- 
lieves, man  was  fully  aware  of  all  that  went  on  within 
himself — a  region  since  closed  to  us,  owing  to  attention 
being  increasingly  directed  outwards.  Into  some  such 
region  I  have  had  a  glimpse,  it  seems.  I  feel  sometimes 
there  was  as  much  fact  as  fancy,  perhaps,  in  the  wise  old 
Hebrew  who  stated  poetically — recently,  too,  compared  with 
the  stretch  of  time  my  science  deals  with — 'The  Sons  of 
God  took  to  themselves  daughters  of  the  children  of 
men.  .  .  ." 

The  letter  here  broke  off,  as  though  interrupted  by  some- 
thing unexpected  and  unusual ;  it  was  signed,  indeed,  "John 
Mason,"  but  signed  in  pencil  and  at  the  bottom  of  an 


22  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

unwritten  blank  sheet.  It  had  not  all  been  written,  either, 
at  one  time,  or  on  the  same  day;  there  were  intervals,  evi- 
dently, perhaps  of  hours,  perhaps  of  days,  between  the 
paragraphs.  Dr.  Fillery  read,  re-read,  then  read  again  the 
strange  epistle,  coming  each  time  to  the  same  conclusion 
— the  writer  was  dying  in  the  very  act  of  forming  the  last 
sentences.  Their  incoherence,  the  alteration  in  the  style, 
were  thus  explained.  He  had  felt  the  end  of  life  so  close 
that  he  had  written  his  signature,  probably  addressed  the 
envelope  as  well,  knowing  the  page  might  never  be  filled 
up.  It  had  not  been  filled  up. 

Something  behind  the  phrases,  behind  the  intensity  of 
the  actual  words,  beyond  the  queer  touches  that  revealed 
a  mind  betrayed  by  solitude,  the  hints  possibly  of  a  deluded 
intelligence — there  was  something  that  rang  true  and 
stimulated  him  more  than  ordinarily.  The  reference  to 
Devonham,  too,  was  definite  enough.  Dr.  Fillery  remem- 
bered vaguely  a  correspondence  during  recent  crowded 
years  with  a  man  named  Mason,  living  away  in  Switzer- 
land somewhere,  and  that  Devonham  had  asked  him  ques- 
tions from  time  to  time  about  what  he  called,  with  his 
rough-and-ready  and  half -humorous  classification,  "pagan 
obsession,"  "worshipper  of  fire  and  wind,"  referring  it  to 
the  writer  of  the  letters,  named  John  Mason.  "Non-human 
delusion,"  he  had  also  called  it  sometimes.  They  had  come 
to  refer  to  it,  he  remembered,  as  "N.H."  in  fact. 

He  now  looked  up  those  Notes,  for  the  mention  of  the 
books  caused  him  an  uncomfortable  feeling  of  neglected 
opportunity,  and  John  Mason  was  an  honoured  name. 

"You  know,  I  believe  .  .  .  my  books,"  the  writer  said. 
Could  this  be,  he  asked  himself  anxiously,  John  Mason,  the 
eminent  geologist?  Had  Devonham  not  realized  who  he 
was?  Must  he  blame  his  assistant,  whose  jealous  care  and 
judgment  saved  him  so  many  foolish,  futile,  un-real  cases, 
reserving  what  was  significant  and  important  only? 

The  Notes  established  his  mistakes  and  his  assistant's 
— perhaps  intentional? — ignorance.  The  writer  of  this 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  23 

curious  letter  was  unquestionably  the  author  of  those  fairy 
books  for  children,  old  and  young,  whose  daring  specula- 
tions had  suggested  that  other  types  and  races,  ages  even 
before  the  Neanderthal  man,  had  dwelt  side  by  side  with 
what  is  known  as  modern  man  upon  this  time-worn  planet. 
Behind  the  literary  form  of  legend  and  fairy  tale,  however, 
lay  a  curious  conviction.  Atlantis  was  of  yesterday  com- 
pared with  earlier  civilizations,  now  extinct  by  fire  and  flood 
and  general  upheaval,  which  once  may  have  inhabited  the 
globe.  The  present  evolutionary  system,  buttressed  by 
Darwin  and  the  rest,  was  but  a  little  recent  insignificant 
series,  trivial  both  in  time  and  space,  when  set  beside  the 
mightier  systems  that  had  come  and  gone.  Their  evidence 
he  found,  not  in  clumsy  fossils  and  footprints  on  cooled 
rocks,  but  in  the  minds  of  those  who  had  followed  and 
eventually  survived  them :  memories  of  Titan  Wars  and 
mighty  beings,  and  gods  and  goddesses  of  non-human  kind, 
to  whose  different  existence  the  physical  conditions  of  an 
over-heated  planet  presented  no  impossibility.  The  human 
species,  this  trumpery,  limited,  self-satisfied  super-animal 
man,  was  not  the  only  type  of  being. 

Yet  John  Mason,  in  his  day,  had  held  the  chair  at  Edin- 
burgh University,  his  lectures  embodied  common-sense  and 
knowledge,  with  acutest  imaginative  insight.  His  earliest 
writings  were  the  text-books  of  the  time.  His  name,  when 
Edward  Fillery  was  medical  student  there,  still  hovered 
like  well-loved  incense  above  the  old-town  towers. 

The  Notes  now  intrigued  him.  No  blame  attached  to 
Devonham  for  having  missed  the  cue,  Devonham  could  not 
know  everything;  geology  was  not  in  his  line  of  work  and 
knowledge ;  and  Mason  was  a  common  name.  Rather  he 
blamed  himself  for  not  having  been  struck  by  the  oddness 
of  the  case — the  Mason  letters,  the  pagan  obsession, 
worshipper  of  wind  and  fire,  the  strange  "N.H." 

"A  competent  indexer,  at  any  rate,"  he  said  to  himself 
with  a  smile,  as  he  turned  up  the  details  easily. 

These    were    very    scanty.      Devonham    evidently    had 


24  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

deemed  the  case  of  questionable  value,  The  letters  from 
Mason,  with  the  answers  to  them,  he  could  not  find. 

The  slight  record  was  headed  "Mason,  John,"  followed 
by  an  address  "Chez  Henri  Petavel,  peasant,  Jura  Moun- 
tains, Vaud,  French  Switzerland,"  and  details  how  to  reach 
this  apparently  remote  valley  by  mule  and  carriage  and 
foot-path.  Name  of  Mason's  protege  not  given. 

"Sex,  male;  age — born  1895 ;  parentage,  couple  of 
mystical  temperament,  sincere,  but  suffering  from  marked 
delusions,  believers  in  Magic  (various,  but  chiefly  concerned 
with  Nature  and  natural  forces,  once  known,  forgotten 
to-day,  of  immense  potency,  accessible  to  certain  practices 
of  logical  but  undetailed  kind,  able  apparently  to  intensify 
human  consciousness). 

"Subject,  of  extremely  quick  intelligence,  yet  betrays 
ignorance  of  human  conditions;  intelligence  superior  to 
human,  though  sometimes  inferior;  long  periods  of  quies- 
cence, followed  by  immense,  almost  super-human,  activity 
and  energy;  worships  fire  and  air,  chiefly  the  former,  call- 
ing the  sun  his  father  and  deity. 

"Abhors  confined  space;  this  shown  by  intense  desire 
for  heat,  which,  together  with  free  space  (air),  seem  con- 
ditions of  well-being. 

"Fears  (as  in  claustrophobia)  both  water  and  solidity 
(anything  massive). 

"Has  great  physical  power,  yet  indifferent  to  its  use; 
women  irresistibly  attracted  to  him,  but  his  attitude  towards 
other  sex  seems  one  of  gentleness  and  pity;  love  means 
nothing.  Has,  on  the  other  hand,  extraordinarily  high  ideal 
of  service.  Is  puzzled  by  quarrels  and  differences  of 
personal  kind*  Half-memories  of  vast  system  of  myriad 
workers,  ruled  by  this  ideal  of  harmonious  service.  Faith- 
ful, true,  honest;  falseness  or  lies  impossible  .  .  .  lovable, 
pathetic,  helpless  type " 

The  Notes  broke  off  abruptly. 

Dr.  Fillery,  wondering  a  little  that  his  subordinate's  brief 
but  suggestive  summary  had  never  been  brought  to  his 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  25 

notice  before,  turned  a  moment  to  glance  at  the  rough 
water-colour  drawing  he  held  in  his  hand.  He  looked  at 
it  for  some  moments  with  absorption.  The  expression  of 
his  face  was  enigmatical.  He  was  more  than  surprised 
that  Devonham  had  not  drawn  his  attention  to  the  case  in 
detail.  Placing  his  hand  so  as  to  hide  the  lower  portion 
of  the  facej  he  examined  the  eyes,  then  turned  the  portrait 
upside  down,  gazing  at  the  eyes  afresh.  He  seemed  lost 
in  thought  for  a  considerable  time.  A  faint  flush  stole  into 
his  cheek,  and  a  careful  observer  might  have  noticed  an 
increase  of  light  about  the  skin.  He  sighed  once  or  twice, 
and  presently,  laying  the  portrait  down  again,  he  turned 
back  to  the  dossier  upon  the  table  in  front  of  him. 

"Very  accurate  and  careful,"  he  said  to  himself  with 
satisfaction  as  he  noticed  the  date  Devonham  had  set  against 
the  entries — "June  2Oth,  1914." 

The  war,  therefore,  had  interrupted  the  correspondence. 

Devonham  had  made  further  notes  of  his  own  in  the 
margin  here  and  there : 

"Does  this  originate  primarily  from  Mason's  mind,  com- 
municated thence  to  his  protege?"  He  agreed  with  his 
assistant's  query. 

"If  so,  was  it  transferred  to  Mason's  mind  before  that? 
By  the  father  or  mother?  The  mother  was,  obviously, 
his — Mason's — great  love.  Yet  the  father  was  his  life 
friend.  Mason's  great  passion  was  suppressed.  He  never 
told  it.  It  found  no  outlet." 

"Admirable,"  was  the  comment  spoken  below  his  breath. 

"Boy  born  as  result  of  some  'magical'  experiment  in- 
tensely believed  (not  stated  in  detail),  during  course  of 
which  father  died  suddenly. 

"Mason  tended  mother,  then  lived  alone  in  remote  place 
where  all  had  occurred. 

"Did  Mason  inherit  entire  content  of  parents'  beliefs, 
dramatizing  this  by  force  of  unexpressed  but  passionate 
love? 

"Did  not  Mason's  mind,  thus  charged,  communicate  whole 


26  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

business  to  the  young  mind  he  has  since  formed,  a  plastic 
mind  uninfluenced  by  normal  human  surroundings  and  con- 
ditions of  ordinary  life? 

"Transfer  of  a  sex-inspired  mania?" 

Then  followed  another  note,  summarizing  evidently 
Devonham's  judgment: 

"Not  worth  F/s  investigation  until  examined  further. 
N.B. — Look  up  Mason  first  opportunity  and  judge  at  first 
hand." 

Dr.  Fillery,  glancing  from  the  papers  to  the  portrait, 
smiled  a  little  again  as  he  signified  approval. 

But  the  last  entry  interested  him  still  more.  It  was  dated 
July  13,  1914. 

"Mason  reports  boy's  prophecy  of  great  upheaval  com- 
ing. Entire  race  slips  back  into  chaos  of  primitive  life 
again.  Entire  Western  Civilization  crumbles.  Modern  in- 
ventions and  knowledge  vanish.  Nature  spirits  reappear. 
.  .  .  Desires  return  of  all  previous  letters.  These  sent  by 
registered  post." 

A  few  scattered  notes  on  separate  sheets  of  paper  lay 
at  the  end  of  the  carefully  typed  dossier,  but  these  were 
very  incomplete,  and  Devonham's  handwriting,  especially 
when  in  pencil,  was  not  of  the  clearest. 

"Non-human  claim,  though  absurd,  not  traceable  to  any 
antecedent  causes  given  by  letters*  What  is  Mason's  past 
mental  and  temperamental  history?  Is  he  not,  through  the 
parents,  the  cause?  Mania  seems  harmless,  both  to  subject 
and  others.  No  suffering  or  unhappiness.  Therefore  not 
a  case  for  F.,  until  further  examined  by  self.  Better  see 
Mason  and  his  subject  first.  Wrote  July  24th  proposing 
visit." 

Dr.  Fillery's  eyes  twinkled.  His  forehead  relaxed.  He 
looked  back.  He  remembered  details.  Devonham's  holiday 
that  year,  he  recalled,  was  due  on  August  ist;  he  had  in- 
tended going  out  mountain  climbing  in  Switzerland. 

The  final  note  of  all,  also  in  half-legible  writing,  seemed 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  27 

to  refer  to  the  treatment  Mason  had  asked  advice  about, 
and  the  line  Devonham  had  suggested: 

"Natural  life  close  to  Nature  cannot  hurt  him.  But  I 
advise  watch  him  with  fire  and  with  heights — heat,  air! 
That  is,  he  may  decide  his  physical  body  is  irksome  and 
seek  to  escape  it.  Teach  him  natural  history — botany, 
geology,  insects,  animals,  even  astronomy,  but  always  giv- 
ing him  reasons  and  explanations.  Above  all — let  him  meet 
girls  of  his  own  age  and  fall  in  love.  Fullest  natural  expres- 
sion, but  guarded  without  his  knowing  it.  .  .  ." 

For  a  long  time  Dr.  Fillery  sat  with  the  notes  and  papers 
before  him,  thinking  over  what  he  had  read.  Devonham's 
advice  was  clever  enough,  but  without  insight,  sound  and 
astute,  yet  lacking  divination. 

The  twinkle  in  his  eyes,  caused  by  the  final  entry,  died 
away.  His  face  was  grave,  his  manner  preoccupied,  intense. 
He  gazed  long  at  the  portrait  in  his  hand.  ...  It  was  dusk 
when  he  finally  rose,  replaced  the  dossier,  locked  the 
cabinet,  and  went  out  into  another  room,  and  thence  into 
the  hall.  Taking  his  hat  and  stick,  he  left  the  house,  already 
composing  in  his  mind  the  telegram  instructing  Devonham, 
while  apologizing  for  the  interrupted  holiday,  to  bring  the 
subject  of  the  Notes  to  England  with  him.  A  telegraph 
girl  met  him  on  the  very  steps  of  the  house.  He  took  the 
envelope  from  her,  and  opened  it.  He  read  the  message 
It  was  dated  Bale,  the  day  before: 

"Arriving  end  week  with  interesting  patient.  Details 
index  under  Mason.  Prepare  private  suite. 

"DEVONHAM/' 


CHAPTER  V 

IT  was,  however,  some  two  weeks  later  before  Dr.  Fillery 
was  on  his  way  to  the  station  to  meet  Devonham  and 
his  companion.  A  slight  delay,  caused  apparently  by  the 
necessity  of  buying  an  outfit,  had  intervened  and  given  time 
for  an  exchange  of  letters,  but  Devonham  had  contented 
himself  chiefly  with  telegrams.  He  did  not  wish  his  chief 
to  know  too  much  about  the  case  in  advance.  "Probably 
he  regrets  the  Notes  already,"  thought  the  doctor,  as  the 
car  made  its  way  slowly  across  crowded  London.  "He 
wants  my  first  unbiased  judgment;  he's  right,  of  course, 
but  it's  too  late  for  that  now." 

The  delay,  however,  had  been  of  value.  The  Home  was 
in  working  order  again,  the  staff  returned,  the  private  suite 
all  ready  for  its  interesting  occupant,  whom  in  thought  he 
had  already  named  "N.H.";  for  in  the  first  place  he  did 
not  know  his  name  as  yet,  and  in  the  second  he  felt  towards 
him  a  certain  attitude  of  tolerant,  half-humorous  scepticism. 

Cut  off  from  his  own  kind  for  so  many  years,  educated, 
perhaps  half -educated  only,  by  too  speculative  and  imagina- 
tive a  mind,  equally  warped  by  this  long  solitude,  a  mind 
unduly  stretched  by  the  contemplation  of  immense  geolog- 
ical perspectives,  filled,  too,  with  heaven  knows  what  strange 
stories  of  pantheistic  Nature- feeling — "N.  H."  might  be 
distinctly  interesting,  but  hardly  all  that  Mason  had  thought 
him.  "Unique"  was  a  word  rarely  justified ;  the  peculiari- 
ties would  prove  to  be  mere  extravagances  that  had,  of 
necessity,  remained  uncorrected  by  the  friction  of  inter- 
course with  his  own  kind.  The  rest  was  inheritance,  equally 
unpruned;  a  mind  living  in  a  side-eddy,  a  backwater  with 
Nature.  .  ,  , 

28 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  29 

At  the  same  time  Dr.  Fillery  admitted  a  certain  antici- 
patory excitement  he  could  not  wholly  account  for,  an 
undercurrent  of  wonder  he  ascribed  to  his  Khaketian  blood. 

He  had  written  once  only  to  his  assistant,  sending  briefest 
instructions  to  say  the  rooms  would  be  ready,  and  that  the 
young  man  must  believe  he  was  an  invited  guest  coming  on 
a  visit.  "Let  him  expect  complete  freedom  of  movement 
and  occupation  without  the  smallest  idea  of  restraint  in 
any  way.  He  is  merely  coming  to  stay  for  as  long  as  he 
pleases  with  a  friend  of  Mason.  Impress  him  with  a  sense 
of  hearty  welcome,"  And  Devonham,  replying,  had  evi- 
dently understood  the  wisdom  of  this  method.  "He  is  also 
greatly  pleased  with  your  name — the  sound  of  it,"  was 
stated  in  the  one  letter  that  he  wrote,  "and  as  names  mean 
a  lot  to  him,  so  much  the  better.  The  sound  of  it  gives 
him  pleasure ;  he  keeps  repeating  it  over  to  himself ;  he 
already  likes  you.  My  name  he  does  not  care  about,  saying 
it  quickly,  sharply.  But  he  trusts  me.  His  trust  in  any- 
one who  shows  him  kindness  is  instantaneous  and  complete. 
He  invariably  expects  kindness,  however,  from  everyone — 
gives  it  himself  equally — and  is  baffled  and  puzzled  by  any 
other  treatment." 

So  Devonham,  with  "N.  H.,"  who  attached  importance 
to  names  and  expected  kindness  from  people  as  a  natural 
thing,  would  be  in  London  town  within  the  hour.  Straight 
from  his  forests  and  mountains  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  he  would  find  himself  in  the  heart  of  the  greatest 
accumulation  of  human  beings  on  the  planet,  the  first  city 
of  the  world,  the  final  expression  of  civilization  as  known 
to  the  human  race. 

"  'N.  H.'  in  London  town,"  thought  Dr.  Fillery,  his  mouth 
twitching  with  the  smile  that  began  in  his  quiet  eyes. 
"Bless  the  lad !  We  must  make  him  feel  at  home  and  happy. 
He  shall  indeed  have  kindness.  He'll  need  a  woman's  touch 
as  well."  He  reflected  a  moment.  "Women  are  a  great 
help  in  doubtful  cases — the  way  a  man  reacts  to  them,"  he 
mused.  "Only  they  must  be  distinct  in  type  to  be  of 


80  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

value."  And  his  mind  ran  quickly,  comprehensively  over 
the  women  of  his  acquaintance,  pausing,  as  it  did  so,  upon 
two  in  particular — a  certain  Lady  Gleeson,  and  Iraida — 
sometimes  called  Nayan — Khilkoff,  the  daugher  o*f  his 
Russian  friend,  the  sculptor. 

His  mind  pondered  for  some  moments  the  two  he  had 
selected.  It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  made  use  of 
them.  Their  effect  respectively  upon  a  man  was  invariably 
instinctive  and  illuminating. 

The  two  were  radically  different  feminine  types,  as  far 
removed  from  one  another  as  pole  from  pole,  yet  each 
essentially  of  her  sex.  Their  effect,  respectively,  upon  such 
a  youth  must  be  of  value,  and  might  be  even  illuminating 
to  the  point  of  revelation.  Both,  he  felt  sure,  would  not  be 
indifferent  to  the  new  personality. 

It  was,  however,  of  Nayan  Khilkoff  that  he  thought 
chiefly.  Of  that  rare,  selfless,  maternal  type  which  men 
in  all  ages  have  called  saint  or  angel,  she  possessed  that 
power  which  evoked  in  them  all  they  could  feel  of  respect, 
of  purity,  of  chivalry,  that  love,  in  a  word,  which  holds 
as  a  chief  ingredient,  worship.  Her  beauty,  beyond  their 
reach,  was  of  the  stars;  it  was  the  unattainable  in  her  they 
loved;  her  beauty  was  of  the  soul.  Nayan  was  spiritual, 
not  as  a  result  of  painful  effort  and  laborious  development, 
but  born  so.  Her  life,  moreover,  was  one  of  natural  service. 
Personal  love,  exclusive  devotion  to  an  individual,  concen- 
tration of  her  being  upon  another  single  being — this  seemed 
impossible  to  her.  She  was  at  the  same  time  an  enigma :  there 
was  an  elusive  flavour  about  her  that  made  people  a  little  in 
awe  of  her,  a  flavour  not  of  this  earth,  quite.  She  carried  an 
impersonal  attitude  almost  to  the  point  of  seeming  irre- 
sponsive to  common  human  things  and  interests. 

The  other  woman,  Lady  Gleeson,  Angela  her  Christian 
name,  was  equally  a  simple  type,  though  her  simplicity  was 
that  of  the  primitive  female  who  is  still  close  to  the  Stone 
Age — a  savage.  She  adorned  herself  to  capture  men.  She 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  31 

was  the  female  spider  that  devours  its  mates.  She  wanted 
slaves.  To  describe  her  as  selfish  were  inadequate,  for  she 
was  unaware  that  any  other  ideal  existed  in  life  but  that 
of  obtaining  her  own  pleasure.  There  was  instinct  and 
emotion,  but,  of  course,  no  heart.  Without  morals,  con- 
science or  consideration,  she  was  the  animal  of  prey  that 
obeys  the  call  of  hunger  in  the  most  direct  way  possible, 
regardless  of  consequences  to  herself  or  others.  Her  brain 
was  quick,  her  personality  shallow.  When  talking  she 
"rattled  on."  Devonham  had  well  said  once:  "You  can 
hear  her  two  thoughts  clicking,  both  of  them  in  trousers!" 
Sir  George,  recently  knighted,  successful  with  large  con- 
cessions in  China,  was  indulgent.  The  male  splendour  of 
the  youth  was  bound  to  stimulate  her  hunger,  as  his  sim- 
plicity, his  loneliness,  and  in  a  sense  his  pathetic  helpless- 
ness, would  certainly  evoke  the  tenderness  in  Nayan.  "He'll 
probably  like  her  dear,  ridiculous  name,  too,"  Dr.  Fillery 
felt,  "the  nickname  they  gave  her  because  she's  the  same 
to  everybody,  whichever  way  you  take  her — Nayan  Khil- 
koff."  Yet  her  real  name  was  more  beautiful — Iraida.  And, 
as  he  repeated  it  half  aloud,  a  soft  light  stole  upon  his  face, 
shone  in  the  deep  clear  eyes,  and  touched  even  the  corners 
of  the  rather  grim  mouth  with  another,  a  tenderer  expres- 
sion, before  the  sternness  quickly  returned  to  it. 

"Nf  H."  would  meet,  thus,  two  main  types  of  female 
life.  He,  apparently  an  exceedingly  male  being,  would  face 
the  onslaught  of  passion  and  heart,  of  lust  and  love,  respec- 
tively; and  it  was  his  reactions  to  these  onslaughts  that 
Fillery  wished  to  observe.  They  would  help  his  diagnosis, 
they  might  guide  his  treatment. 

It  was  a  warm  and  muggy  afternoon,  the  twilight  pass- 
ing rapidly  into  darkness  now;  one  of  those  late  autumn 
days  when  summer  heat  flits  back,  but  light  is  weak.  The 
covered  sky  increased  the  clammy  warmth,  which  was 
damp,  unhealthy,  devitalizing.  No  wind  stirred.  The  great 
city  was  sticky  and  depressing.  Yet  people  approved  the 


32  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

heat,  although  it  tired  them.  "It  shortens  the  winter,  any- 
how," was  the  general  verdict,  when  expressed  at  all.  They 
referred  unconsciously  to  the  general  dread  of  strikes. 

London  was  hurried  and  confused.  An  air  of  feverish 
overcrowding  reigned  in  the  great  station,  when  he  left  the 
car  and  went  in  on  foot.  No  sign  of  order,  system,  direc- 
tion, was  visible.  The  scene  might  have  been  a  first  re- 
hearsal of  some  entirely  new  experiment.  Grumbling  and 
complaint  rose  from  all  sides  in  an  exasperated  chorus. 
He  tried  to  ascertain  how  late  the  train  was  and  on  which 
platform  it  might  be  expected,  but  no  one  knew  for  certain, 
and  the  grudging  replies  to  questions  seemed  to  say, 
"You've  no  right  to  ask  anything,  and  if  you  keep  on  ask- 
ing there  will  be  a  strike.  So  that's  that !" 

He  listened  to  the  talk  and  watched  the  facial  expres- 
sions and  the  movements  of  the  half -resigned  and  half- 
excited  concourse  of  London  citizens.  The  clock  was 
accurate,  and  everyone  was  kind  to  ladies;  stewed  tea,  stale 
cake  with  little  stones  in  it,  vile  whisky  and  very  weak 
beer  were  obtainable  at  high  prices.  There  were  no  matches. 
The  machine  for  supplying  platform-tickets  was  broken. 
He  saw  men  paying  more  thought  and  attention  to  the 
comfort  of  their  dogs  than  to  their  own.  The  great,  marvel- 
lous, stupid,  splendid  race  was  puzzled  and  exasperated. 
Then,  suddenly,  the  train  pulled  in,  full  of  returned  exiles 
longing  to  be  back  again  in  "dear  old  England." 

"Thank  God,  it's  come,"  sighed  the  crowd.  "Good! 
We're  English.  Forgive  and  forget!"  and  prepared  to  tip 
the  porters  handsomely  and  carry  their  own  baggage. 

The  confusion  that  followed  was  equally  characteristic, 
and  equally  remarkable,  displaying  greatness  side  by  side 
with  its  defects.  There  was  no  system;  all  was  muddled, 
yet  all  was  safe.  Anyone  could  claim  what  luggage  they 
liked,  though  no  one  did  so,  nor  dreamed,  it  seemed,  of 
doing  so.  There  was  an  air  of  decent  honesty  and  trust. 
There  were  ladies  who  discovered  that  all  men  are  savages ; 
there  were  men — and  women — who  were  savages.  People 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  33 

shook  hands  warmly,  smiled  with  honest  affection,  said 
light,  careless  good-byes  that  hid  genuine  emotion;  helped 
one  another  with  parcels,  offered  one  another  lifts.  There 
were  few  taxicabs,  one  perhaps  to  every  thirty  people. 
And  in  this  general  scrimmage,  Dr.  Fillery,  at  first,  could 
see  no  sign  of  his  expected  arrivals;  he  walked  from  end 
to  end  of  the  platform  littered  with  luggage  and  thronged 
with  bustling  people,  but  nowhere  could  he  discover  the 
familiar  outline  of  Devonham,  nor  anyone  who  answered 
to  the  strange  picture  that  already  stood  forth  sharply  in 
his  mind. 

"There's  been  a  mistake  somewhere,"  he  said  to  himself ; 
"I  shall  find  a  telegram  when  I  get  back  to  the  house 
explaining  it" — when,  suddenly  and  without  apparent  cause, 
there  stole  upon  him  a  curious  lift  of  freedom — a  sharp 
sense  of  open  spaces  he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand.  It 
was  accompanied  by  an  increase  of  light.  For  a  second  it 
occurred  to  him  that  the  great  enclosing  roof  had  rolled 
back  and  blown  away,  letting  in  air  and  some  lost  ray  of 
sunshine.  A  lovely  valley  flitted  across  his  thought.  Al- 
most he  was  aware  of  flowers,  of  music,  of  rhythmic  move- 
ment. 

"Edward!  there  you  are.  I  thought  you  hadn't  come," 
he  heard  close  behind  him,  and,  turning,  saw  the  figure  of 
Devonham,  calm  and  alert  as  usual.  At  his  side  stood  a 
lean,  virile  outline  of  a  young  man,  topping  Devonham  by 
several  inches,  with  broad  but  thin  shoulders,  figure  erect 
yet  flexible,  whose  shining  and  inquiring  eyes  of  blue  were 
the  most  striking  feature  in  a  boyish  face,  where  strength, 
intensity  and  radiant  health  combined  in  an  unusual  degree. 

"Here  is  our  friend,  LeVallon,"  added  Devonham,  but 
not  before  the  figure  had  stepped  lightly  and  quickly  for- 
ward, already  staring  at  him  and  shaking  his  outstretched 
hand. 

So  this  was  "N.  H.,"  and  LeVallon  was  his  name.  The 
calm,  searching  eyes  held  a  touch  of  bewilderment  in  them, 
the  eyes  of  an  honest,  intelligent  animal,  thought  Fillery 


34  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

quickly,  adding  in  spite  of  himself  and  almost  simul- 
taneously, "but  of  a  divine  animal."  It  was  a  look  he  had 
never  in  his  life  before  encountered  in  any  human  eyes. 
Mason's  water-colour  sketch  had  caught  something,  at  least, 
of  their  innocence  and  question,  of  their  odd  directness 
and  intensity,  something,  too,  of  the  golden  fire  in  the  hair. 
He  wore  a  broad-brimmed  felt  hat  of  Swiss  pattern,  a 
Bernese  overcoat,  a  low,  soft-collared  shirt,  with  blue  tie 
to  match. 

Buffeted  and  pushed  by  the  frenzied  travellers,  they  stood 
and  faced  each  other,  shaking  hands,  eyes  looking  into 
eyes,  two  strangers,  doctor  and  patient  possibly,  but  friends 
most  certainly,  both  felt  instantly.  They  liked  one  another, 
Once  again  the  scent  of  flowers  danced  with  light  above 
the  piled-up  heaps  of  trunks,  rugs,  packages.  A  cool  wind 
from  mountains  seemed  to  blow  across  the  dreadful  station. 

"You've  arrived  safely,"  began  Dr.  Fillery,  a  little  taken 

aback  perhaps.    "Welcome !    And  not  too  tired,  I  hope 

when  the  other  interrupted  him  in  a  man's  deep  voice,  full 
of  pleasant  timbre : 

"Fill-er-y,"  he  said,  making  the  "F"  sound  rather  long, 
"I  need  you.  To  see  you  makes  me  happy." 

"Tired,"  put  in  Devonham  breathlessly,  "good  heavens, 
not  he !  But  I  am.  Now  for  a  porter  and  the  big  luggage. 
Have  you  got  a  taxi  ?" 

"The  car  is  here,"  said  Fillery,  letting  go  with  a  certain 
reluctance  the  hand  he  held,  and  paying  little  attention  to 
anything  but  the  figure  before  him  who  used  such  unex- 
pected language.  What  was  it?  What  did  it  mean? 
Whence  came  this  sudden  sense  of  intensity,  light,  of  order, 
system,  intelligence  into  the  racial  scene  of  muddled  turmoil 
all  about  him?  There  seemed  an  air  of  speeding  up  in 
thought  and  action  near  him,  compared  to  which  the  slow 
stupidity,  unco-ordinated  and  confused  on  all  sides,  became 
painful,  gross,  and  even  ludicrous. 

Someone  bumped  against  him  with  violence,  but  quite 
needlessly,  since  the  simplest  judgment  of  weight  and  dis- 
tance could  have  avoided  the  collision.  In  such  ordinary 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  35 

small  details  he  was  aware  of  another,  a  higher,  standard 
close.  A  man  on  his  left,  trying  to  manage  several  bundles, 
appeared  vividly  as  of  amazing  incompetence,  with  his  mis- 
calculation, his  clumsy  movement,  his  hopeless  inability  to 
judge  cause  and  effect.  Yet  he  had  two  arms,  ten  fingers, 
two  legs,  broad  shoulders  and  deep  chest.  Misdirection  of 
his  great  strength  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  manage 
the  assortment  of  light  parcels.  Next  to  him,  however,  stood 
a  woman  carrying  a  baby — there  was  no  error  there.  The 
panting  engine  just  beyond  them,  again,  set  a  standard  of 
contemptuous,  impersonal  intelligence  that,  obeying  Nature's 
laws,  dwarfed  the  humans  generally.  But  it  was  another, 
a  quasi-spiritual  standard  that  had  flashed  to  him  above  all. 
In  some  curious  way  the  competent  "dead"  machinery  that 
obeyed  the  Law  with  faultless  efficiency,  and  the  woman 
obeying  instinct  with  equally  unconscious  skill — these  two 
energies  were  akin  to  the  new  standard  he  was  now 
startlingly  aware  of. 

He  looked  up,  as  though  to  trace  this  sudden  new  con- 
sciousness of  bright,  quick,  rapid  competence — almost  as 
of  some  immense  power  building  with  consistent  scheme 
and  system — that  had  occurred  to  him;  and  he  met  again 
the  direct,  yet  slightly  bewildered  eyes  that  watched  him, 
watched  him  with  confidence,  sweetness,  and  with  a  ques- 
tioning intensity  he  found  intriguing,  captivating,  and  oddly 
stimulating.  He  felt  happiness. 

"By  yer  leave!"  roared  a  porter,  as  they  stepped  aside 
just  in  time  to  save  being  pushed  by  the  laden  truck — 
just  in  time  to  save  himself,  that  is,  for  the  other,  Fillery 
noticed,  moved  like  a  chamois  on  its  native  rocks,  so  surely, 
lightly,  swiftly  was  he  poised. 

"This!  Ah,  you  must  excuse  it,"  the  doctor  exclaimed 
with  a  smile  of  apology  almost,  "we've  not  yet  had  time 
to  settle  down  after  the  war,  you  see."  He  pointed  with 
a  sweep  of  his  hand  to  the  roaring,  dim-lit  cavern  where 
confusion  reigned  supreme,  the  G.H.Q.  of  travel  in  the 
biggest  city  of  the  Empire. 

"I've  got  a  porter,'"'  cried  Devonham,  beckoning  vigorously 


36  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

a  little  further  down  the  platform.  "You  wait  there.  I'll 
be  along  in  a  minute  with  the  stuff."  He  was  hot,  flustered, 
exhausted. 

"You  struggle.  It  was  like  this  all  the  way.  Is  there 
no  knowledge?"  LeVallon  asked  in  his  deep,  quiet  tones. 

"We  do,"  said  Fillery.  "With  us  life  is  always  struggle. 
But  there  is  more  system  than  appears.  The  confusion  is 
chiefly  on  the  surface." 

"It  is  dark  and  there  is  so  little  air,"  observed  the  other. 
"And  they  all  work  against  each  other." 

Fillery  laughed  into  the  other's  eyes;  they  laughed  to- 
gether; and  it  seemed  suddenly  to  the  doctor  that  their 
beings  somehow  merged,  so  that,  for  a  second,  he  knew 
the  entire  content  of  his  companion's  mind — as  if  there 
was  nothing  in  LeVallon  he  did  not  understand. 

"You — are  a  builder,"  LeVallon  said  abruptly.  But  as 
he  said  it  his  companion  caught,  on  the  wing  as  it  were, 
another  meaning.  He  became  curiously  aware  of  the  small- 
ness,  of  the  remote  insignificance  of  the  little  planet  whereon 
this  dialogue  took  place,  yet  at  the  same  time  of  its  superb 
seductive  loveliness.  In  him  rose  a  feeling,  as  on  wings, 
that  he  was  not  chained  in  his  familiar,  daily  personality, 
but  that  an  immense,  delicious  freedom  lay  within  reach. 
He  could  be  everywhere  at  once.  He  could  do  everything. 

"Wait  here  while  I  help  Devonham.  Then  we'll  get  into 
the  car  and  be  off."  He  moved  away,  threading  a  path 
with  difficulty. 

"I  wait  in  peace.    I  am  happy,"  was  the  reply. 

And  with  those  few  phrases,  uttered  in  the  quiet,  deep 
voice,  sounding  in  his  ears  and  in  his  very  blood,  the  older 
man  went  towards  the  spot  where  Devonham  struggled  with 
a  porter,  a  pile  of  nondescript  luggage  and  a  truck :  "I  wait 
in  peace.  .  .  .  You  struggle,  you  work  against  each 
other.  ...  It  is  dark,  there  is  little  air.  .  .  .  You  are  a 
builder.  .  .  ." 

But  not  these  singular  words  alone  remained  alive  in 
his  mind;  there  remained  in  his  heart  the  sense  of  that 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  37 

vitality  of  open  spaces,  keen  air  and  brighter  light  he  had 
experienced — and,  with  it,  the  security  of  some  higher, 
faultless  standard.  His  brain,  indeed,  had  recognized  a 
consciousness  of  swifter  reactions,  of  surer  movements,  of 
more  intelligent  co-ordination,  compared  to  which  the  people 
about  him  behaved  like  stupid,  almost  like  half-witted 
beings,  the  one  exception  being  the  instinctive  action  of  the 
mother  in  carrying  her  baby,  and  the  other,  the  impersonal, 
accurate,  competence  of  the  dead  machinery. 

But,  more  than  this  reasoned  change,  there  burned  sud- 
denly in  his  heart  an  inexplicable  exhilaration  and  bright- 
ness, a  wonder  that  he  could  attribute  only  to  another  mode 
of  life.  His  Khaketian  blood,  he  knew,  might  be  responsible 
for  part  of  it,  but  not  for  all.  The  invigorating  mountain 
wind,  the  sunlight,  the  rhythmic  sound,  the  scent  of  wild 
flowers,  these  were  his  own  personal  interpretations  of  a 
quickened  sense  he  could  not  analyse  as  yet.  As  he  held 
the  young  man's  hand,  as  he  gazed  into  his  direct  blue 
eyes,  this  sense  had  increased  in  intensity.  LeVallon  had 
some  marvellous  quality  or  power  that  was  new  to  him, 
while  yet  not  entirely  unfamiliar.  What  was  it  ?  And  how 
did  the  youth  perceive  this  sense  in  him  so  surely  that  he 
took  its  presence  for  granted,  accepted,  even  played  upon 
it?  He  experienced,  as  it  were,  a  brilliant  intensification 
of  spirit.  Some  portion  of  him  already  knew  exactly  what 
LeVallon  was. 

Across  the  ugly  turmoil  and  confusion  of  the  huge  dingy 
railway  terminus  had  moved  wondrously  some  simple  power 
that  brought  in — Beauty.  Some  very  deep  and  ancient 
conception  had  touched  him  and  gone  its  way  again.  The 
stupendous  beauty  of  a  simple,  common  day  appeared  to 
him.  His  subconscious  being,  of  course,  was  deeply  stirred. 
That  was  the  truth,  phrase  it  as  he  might.  His  heart  was 
lifted  as  by  a  primal  wind  at  dawn  upon  some  mountain 
top.  The  heaviness  of  the  day  was  gone.  Fatigue,  too, 
vanished.  The  "civilized"  folk  appeared  contemptible  and 
stupid.  Something  direct  from  Nature  herself  poured 


38  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

through  him.,  And  it  was  from  the  atmosphere  of  LeVallon 
this  new  vitality  issued  radiating. 

He  found  a  moment  or  two,  while  alone  with  Devonham, 
to  exchange  a  few  hurried  sentences.  As  they  bent  over 
bags  and  bundles  he  asked  quick  questions.  These  ques- 
tions and  answers  between  the  two  experienced  men  were 
brief  but  significant: 

"Yes,  quiet  as  a  lamb.  Just  be  kind  and  sympathetic. 
You  looked  up  the  Notes  ?  Well,  that  can't  be  helped  now, 
though  I  had  rather  you  knew  nothing.  My  mistake,  of 
course." 

"The  content  of  his  mind  is  accessible  to  me — telepath- 
ically — in  any  case." 

"But  at  one  remove  more  distant,  because  unexpressed." 

Fillery  laughed.  "Quite  right.  I  admit  it's  a  pity.  But 
tell  me  more  about  him — anything  I  ought  to  know — at 
once." 

"Quiet  as  a  lamb,  I  told  you,"  repeated  the  other,  "and 
most  of  the  way  over  too.  Butt  puzzled — my  God,  Edward, 
his  criticisms  would  make  a  book." 

"Normal?    Intelligent  criticisms?" 

"Intelligent  above  ordinary.    Normal — no." 

"Hysteria?" 

"Not  a  sign." 

"Health?" 

"Perfect,  magnificent,  as  you  see.  He's  less  tired  now 
than  when  we  started  three  days  ago,  whereas  I'm  fagged 
out,  though  in  climbing  condition." 

"Origin  of  delusions — any  indication?" 

Devonham  looked  up  quickly.  His  eyes  flashed  a 
peculiarly  searching  glance — something  watchful  in  it  per- 
haps. "No  delusion  at  all  of  any  sort.  As  for  origin  of 
his  ideas — the  parents  probably,  but  stimulated  and  allowed 
unchecked  growth  by  Mason.  Affected  by  Nature  beyond 
anything  we  know." 

"By  Nature.  Ah!"  He  checked  himself.  "And  what 
peculiarities?"  he  asked. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  39 

"His  terror  of  water,  for  instance.  Crossing  the  Channel 
he  was  like  a  frightened  child.  He  hid  from  it,  kept  his 
hands  over  his  eyes  even,  so  as  not  to  see  it." 

"Give  any  reason?" 

"All  he  said  was  'It  is  unknown,  an  enemy,  and  can 
destroy  me,  I  cannot  understand  its  secret  ways.  Fire 
and  wind  are  not  in  it.  I  cannot  work  with  it.'  No,  it 
was  not  fear  of  drowning  that  he  meant.  He  found  com- 
fort, too,  in  the  repetition  of  your  name." 

"Appetite,  pulse,  temperature?"  asked  Fillery,  after  a 
brief  pause. 

"First  two  very  strong ;  temperature  always  slightly  above 
normal." 

"Other  peculiarities  ?" 

"He  became  rather  excited  before  a  lighted  match  once 
— tried  to  kneel,  almost,  but  I  stopped  it." 

"Fire?" 

"That's  it.    Instinct  of  worship  presumably." 

The  barrow  was  laden,  the  porter  was  asking  where 
the  car  was.  They  prepared  to  move  back  to  the  com- 
panion, whom  Fillery  had  never  failed  to  observe  care- 
fully over  his  shoulder  during  this  rapid  conversation. 
"N.  H."  had  not  moved  the  whole  time:  he  stood  quietly, 
looking  about  him,  a  curious  figure,  aloof  somehow  from 
his  surroundings,  so  tall  and  straight  and  unconcerned  he 
seemed,  yet  so  poised,  alert,  virile,  vigorous.  It  was  not 
'his  clothes  that  made  him  appear  unusual,  nor  was  it  his 
eyes  and  hair  alone,  though  all  three  contributed  their 
share.  Yet  he  seemed  dressed  up,  his  clothes  irksome  to 
him.  He  was  uncommon,  an  attractive  figure,  and  many 
a  pair  of  eyes,  female  eyes  especially,  Fillery  noticed,  turned 
to  examine  him  with  undeniable  curiosity. 

"And  women?"  the  doctor  asked  quickly  in  a  lowered 
voice,  as  they  followed  the  porter's  barrow  towards  Le- 
Vallon,  who  already  smiled  at  their  approach — the  most 
engaging,  trustful,  welcoming  smile  that  Fillery  Bad  ever 
seen  upon  a  human  countenance. 


40  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

He  lowered  his  head  to  catch  the  reply.  But  Devonham 
only  laughed  and  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "All  attracted," 
he  mumbled  in  a  half  whisper,  "and  eager  to  help  him." 

"And  he ?" 

"Gentle,  astonished,  but  indifferent,  oh,  supremely  in- 
different." 

LeVallon  came  forward  to  meet  them,  and  Fillery  took 
his  hand  and  led  him  to  the  car.  The  luggage  was  bundled 
in,  some  behind  and  some  on  the  roof.  Fillery  and  Le- 
Vallon sat  side  by  side.  The  car  started. 

"We  shall  get  home  in  half  an  hour,"  the  doctor  men- 
tioned, turning  to  his  companion.  "We'll  have  a  good 
dinner  and  then  get  to  bed.  You  are  hungry,  I  know." 

"Thank  you,"  was  the  reply,  "thank  you,  dear  Fillery. 
I  want  sleep  most.  Will  there  be  trees  and  air  near  me? 
And  stars  to  see?" 

"Your  windows  open  on  to  a  garden  with  big  trees,  there 
will  be  plenty  of  fresh  air,  and  you  will  hear  the  sparrows 
chattering  at  dawn.  But  London,  of  course,  is  not  the 
country.  Oh,  we'll  make  you  comfortable,  never  fear." 

"Dear  Fillery,  I  thank  you,"  said  LeVallon  quietly,  and 
without  more  ado  lay  back  among  the  soft  cushions  and 
closed  his  eyes.  Hardly  a  word  was  said  the  whole  way 
out  to  the  north-west  suburb,  and  when  they  arrived  the 
"patient"  was  too  overcome  with  sleep  to  wish  to  eat.  He 
went  straight  to  his  room,  found  a  hot  bath  into  which  he 
tumbled  first,  and  then  leaped  into  his  bed  and  was  sound 
asleep  almost  before  the  door  was  closed.  Upon  a  table 
beside  the  bed  Dr.  Fillery,  with  his  own  hands,  arranged 
bread,  butter,  eggs  and  a  jug  of  milk  in  case  of  need. 
Nurse  Robbins,  an  experienced,  tactful  young  woman,  he 
put  in  special  charge.  He  thought  of  everything,  divining 
his  friend's  possible  needs  instinctively,  noticing  with  his 
keen  practised  eye  several  details  for  himself  at  the  same 
time.  The  splendid  physical  condition,  frame-work, 
muscular  development  he  noted — no  freakish  bulky  masses 
produced  by  gymnastic  exercises,  but  the  muscles  laid  on 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  41 

flowingly,  smooth  and  firm  and  ample,  without  a  trace  of 
fat,  and  the  whole  in  the  most  admirable  proportion  pos- 
sible. The  leanness  was  deceptive ;  the  body  was  of  immense 
power.  The  quick,  certain,  unerring  movements  he  noticed 
too;  perfect,  swift  co-ordination  between  brain  and  phys- 
ical response,  no  misdirection,  no  miscalculation,  the  reac- 
tions extremely  rapid.  He  thought  with  a  smile  of  some- 
thing between  deer  and  tiger.  The  poise  and  balance  and 
accuracy  conveyed  intense  joy  of  living.  Yet  above  and 
beyond  these  was  something  else  he  could  not  name,  some- 
thing that  stirred  in  him  wonder,  love,  a  touch  of  awe,  and 
a  haunting  suggestion  of  familiarity. 

He  saw  him  into  bed,  he  saw  him  actually  asleep*  The 
strong  blue  eyes  looked  up  into  his  own  with  their  intense 
and  innocent  gaze  for  a  moment;  he  held  the  firm,  dry 
muscular  hand;  ten  seconds  later  the  eyes  were  closed  in 
sleep,  the  grip  of  the  powerful  but  slender  fingers  relaxed. 

"Good  night,  my  friend,  and  sleep  deeply.  To-morrow 
we'll  see  to  everything  you  need.  Be  happy  here  and  com- 
fortable with  us,  for  you  are  welcome  and  we  love  you." 
His  voice  trembled  slightly. 

"Good  night,  dear  Fill-er-y,"  the  musical  tones  replied, 
and  he  was  off. 

The  windows  were  wide  open.  "N.  H."  had  thrown 
aside  the  pyjamas  and  blankets.  On  this  cool,  damp  night 
of  late  autumn  he  covered  his  big,  warm,  lithe  body  with  a 
single  sheet  only. 

Fillery  went  out  quietly,  an  expression  of  keen  approval 
and  enjoyment  on  his  face — not  a  smile  exactly,  but  that 
look  of  deep  content,  betraying  a  fine  inner  excitement  of 
happiness,  which  is  the  mother  of  all  smiles.  As  he  softly 
opened  the  door  the  draught  blew  through  from  the  open 
windows,  stirring  the  white  curtains  by  the  bed.  It  came 
from  the  big  damp  garden  where  the  trees  stood,  already 
nearly  leafless,  and  where  no  flowers  were.  And  yet  a 
scent  of  flowers  came  faintly  with  it.  He  caught  an  echo 
of  faint  sound  like  music.  There  was  the  invigorating 


42  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

hint  of  forests  too.    It  seemed  a  living  wind  that  blew  into 
the  house. 

Dr.  Fillery  paused  a  moment,  sniffed  with  surprise  and 
sharp  enjoyment,  listened  intently,  then  switched  the  light 
off  and  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  him.  There  was 
a  flash  of  wonder  in  his  eyes,  and  a  thrill  of  some  remote 
inexplicable  happiness  ran  through  his  nerves.  An  instant 
of  complete  comprehension  had  been  his,  as  if  another  con- 
sciousness had,  for  that  swift  instant,  identified  itself  with 
his  own. 


CHAPTER  VI 

EDWARD  FILLERY  was  glad  that  Paul  Devonham, 
good  friend  and  skillful  colleague,  was  his  assistant; 
for  Devonham,  competent  as  himself  in  knowledge  and 
experience,  found  explanations  for  all  things,  and  had  in 
his  natural  temperament  a  quality  of  sane  judgment  which 
corrected  extravagances. 

Devonham  was  agnostic,  because  reason  ruled  his  life. 
Devoid  of  imagination,  he  had  no  temptations.  Speculative, 
within  limits,  he  might  be,  but  he  belonged  not  to  the 
unstable.  Not  that  he  thought  he  knew  everything,  but 
that  he  refused  to  base  action  on  what  he  regarded  as 
unknown.  A  clue  into  the  unknown  he  would  follow  up 
as  keenly,  carefully,  as  Fillery  himself,  but  he  went  step 
by  step,  with  caution,  declining  to  move  further  until  the 
last  step  was  of  hardened  concrete.  To  the  powers  of  the 
subconscious  self  he  set  drastic  limits,  admitting  their 
existence  of  course,  but  attaching  small  value  to  their  use 
or  development.  His  own  deeper  being  had  never  stirred 
or  wakened.  Of  this  under-sea,  this  vast  background  in 
himself,  he  remained  placidly  uninformed.  A  comprehensive 
view  of  a  problem — the  flash  of  vision  he  never  knew — 
thus  was  perhaps  denied  him,  but  so  far  as  he  went  he  was 
very  safe  and  sure.  And  his  chief  was  the  first  to  appreciate 
his  value.  He  appreciated  it  particularly  now,  as  the  two 
men  sat  smoking  after  their  late  dinner,  discussing  details 
of  the  new  inmate  of  the  Home. 

Fillery,  aware  of  the  strong  pull  upon  his  own  mixed 
blood,  aware  of  a  half-wild  instinctive  sympathy  towards 
"N.  H.,"  almost  of  a  natural  desire  now,  having  seen  him, 
to  believe  him  "unique"  in  several  ways,  and,  therefore, 

43 


44  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

conscious  of  a  readiness  to  accept  more  than  any  evidence 
yet  justified — feeling  these  symptoms  clearly,  and  remem- 
bering vividly  his  experiences  in  the  railway  station,  he 
was  glad,  for  truth's  sake,  that  Devonham  was  there  to 
clip  extravagance  before  it  injured  judgment.  A  weak 
man,  aware  of  his  own  frailties,  excels  a  stronger  one  who 
thinks  he  has  none  at  all.  The  two  colleagues  were  a  power- 
ful combination. 

"In  your  view,  it's  merely  a  case  of  a  secondary — any- 
how of  a  divided — personality?"  he  asked,  as  soon  as  the 
other  had  recovered  a  little  from  his  journey,  and  was 
digesting  his  meal  comfortably  over  a  pipe.  "You  have 
seen  more  of  him  than  I  have.  Of  insanity,  at  any  rate, 
there  is  no  sign  at  all,  I  take  it?  His  relations  with  his 
environment  are  sound?" 

"None  whatever."  Devonham  answered  both  questions 
at  once.  "Exactly." 

He  took  off  his  pince-nez,  cleaned  them  with  his  hand- 
kerchief, and  then  replaced  them  carefully.  This  gave  him 
time  to  reflect,  as  though  he  was  not  quite  sure  where  to 
begin  his  story. 

"There  are  certainly  indications,"  he  went  on  slowly, 
"of  a  divided  personality,  though  of  an  unusual  kind.  The 
margin  between  the  two — between  the  normal  and  the 
secondary  self — is  so  very  slight.  It  is  not  clearly  defined, 
I  mean.  They  sometimes  merge  and  interpenetrate.  The 
frontier  is  almost  indistinguishable." 

Fillery  raised  his  eyebrows. 

"You  feel  uncertain  which  is  the  main  self,  and  which 
the  split-off  secondary  personality?"  he  inquired,  with  sur- 
prise. 

Devonham  nodded.  "I'm  extremely  puzzled,"  he  ad- 
mitted. "LeVallon's  most  marked  self,  the  best  defined, 
the  richest,  the  most  fully  developed,  seems  to  me  what  we 
should  call  his  Secondary  Self — this  'Nature-being'  that 
worships  wind  and  fire,  is  terrified  by  a  large  body  of  water, 
is  ignorant  of  human  ways,  probably  also  quite  ww-moral, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  45 

yet  alive  with  a  kind  of  instinctive  wisdom  we  credit 
usually  to  the  animal  kingdom — though  far  beyond  any- 
thing animals  can  claim " 

"Briefly,  what  we  mean  by  the  term  'N.  H.,' "  suggested 
Fillery,  not  anxious  for  too  many  details  at  the  moment. 

"Exactly.  And  I  propose  we  always  refer  to  that  aspect 
of  him  as  'N.  H./  the  other,  the  normal  ordinary  man, 
being  LeVallon,  his  right  name."  He  smiled  faintly. 

"Agreed,"  replied  his  chief.  "We  shall  always  know 
then  exactly  which  one  we're  talking  of  at  a  given  moment. 
Now,"  he  went  on,  "to  come  to  the  chief  point,  and  before 
you  give  me  details  of  what  happened  abroad,  let  me  hear 
your  own  main  conclusion.  What  is  LeVallon?  What  is 
'N.  H.'  ?" 

Devonham  hesitated  for  some  time.  It  was  evident  his 
respect  for  his  chief  made  him  cautious.  There  was  an 
eternal  battle  between  these  two,  keen  though  always  good- 
natured,  even  humorous,  the  victory  not  invariably  per- 
haps with  the  assistant.  Later  evidence  had  often  proved 
Fillery's  swifter  imagination  correct  after  all,  or,  alter- 
nately, shown  him  to  be  wrong.  They  kept  an  accurate 
score  of  the  points  won  and  lost  by  either. 

"You  can  always  revise  your  conclusions  later,"  Fillery 
reminded  him  slyly.  "Call  it  a  preliminary  conclusion  for 
the  moment.  You've  not  had  time  yet  for  a  careful  study, 
I  know." 

But  Devonham  this  time  did  not  smile  at  the  rally,  and 
his  chief  noticed  it  with  secret  approval.  Here  was  some- 
thing new,  big,  serious,  it  seemed.  Devonham,  apparently, 
was  already  too  interested  to  care  who  scored  or  did  not 
score.  His  Notes  of  1914  indeed  betrayed  his  genuine 
zeal  sufficiently. 

"LeVallon,"  he  said  at  length — "to  begin  with  him!  I 
think  LeVallon — without  any  flavour  of  'N.  H/ — is  a  fine 
specimen  of  a  normal  human  being.  His  physique  is 
magnificent,  as  you  have  seen,  his  health  and  strength 
exceptional.  The  brain,  so  far  as  I  have  been  able  to  judge, 


46  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

functions  quite  normally.  The  intelligence,  also  normal,  is 
much  above  the  average  in  quickness,  receptivity  of  ideas, 
and  judgment  based  on  these.  The  emotional  development, 
however,  puzzles  me;  the  emotions  are  not  entirely  normal. 
But" — he  paused  again,  a  grave  expression  on  his  face — 
"to  answer  your  question  as  well  as  my  limited  observation 
of  him,  of  LeVallon,  allows — I  repeat  that  I  consider  him 
a  normal  young  man,  though  with  peculiarities  and  idiosyn- 
crasies of  his  own,  as  with  most  other  normal  young  fellows 
who  are  individuals,  that  is,"  he  added  quickly,  "and  not 
turned  out  in  bundles  cut  to  measure." 

"So  much  for  LeVallon.    Now  what  about  'N.  H.'  ?" 

He  repeated  the  question,  fixing  the  assistant  with  his 
steady  gaze.  He  had  noticed  the  confusion  in  the  reply. 

"My  dear  Edward "  began  Devonham,  after  a  con- 
siderable pause.  Then  he  stuck  fast,  sighed,  settled  his 
glasses  carefully  upon  his  aquiline,  sharp  nose,  and  relapsed 
into  silence.  His  forehead  became  wrinkled,  his  mouth 
much  pursed. 

"Out  with  it,  Paul !  This  isn't  a  Court  of  Law.  I  shan't 
behead  you  if  you're  wrong."  Yet  Fillery,  too,  spoke 
gravely. 

The  other  kept  his  eyes  down;  his  face  still  wore  a 
puzzled  look.  Fillery  detected  a  new  expression  on  the 
keen,  thoughtful  features,  and  he  was  pleased  to  see  it. 

"To  give  you  the  truth,"  resumed  his  assistant,  "and  all 
question  of  who  is  right  or  who  is  wrong  aside,  I  tell  you 
frankly — I  am  not  sure.  I  confess  myself  up  against  it. 

It — er — gives  me  the  creeps  a  little "  He  laughed 

awkwardly.  That  swift  watchful  look,  as  of  a  man  who 
plays  a  part,  flashed  and  vanished. 

"Your  feeling,  anyhow?"  insisted  his  friend.  "Your 
general  feeling?" 

"A  general  judgment  based  on  general  feeling,"  said  the 
other  in  a  quiet  tone,  "has  little  value.  It  is  based,  neces- 
sarily, as  you  know,  upon  intuition,  which  I  temperamentally 
dislike.  It  has  no  facts  to  go  upon.  I  distrust  generaliza- 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  47 

tions."  He  took  a  deep  breath,  inhaled  a  lot  of  smoke, 
exhaled  it  with  relief,  and  made  an  effort.  It  went  against 
the  grain  in  him  to  be  caught  without  an  explanation. 

"  'N.  H.'  in  my  opinion,  and  so  far  as  my  limited  obser- 
vation of  him " 

Fillery  allowed  himself  a  laugh  of  amused  impatience. 
"Leave  out  the  personal  extras  for  once,  and  burn  your 
bridges.  Tell  me  finally  what  you  think  about  'N.  H.' 
We're  not  scoring  points  now." 

Thus  faced  with  an  alternative,  Devonham  found  his 
sense  of  humour  again  and  forgot  himself.  It  cost  him 
an  effort,  but  he  obeyed  the  bigger  and  less  personal  mind. 

"I  really  don't  know  exactly  what  he  is,"  he  confessed 
again.  "He  puzzles  me  completely.  It  may  be" — he 
shrugged  his  shoulders,  compelled  by  his  temperament  to 
hedge — "that  he  represents,  as  I  first  thought,  the  content 
of  his  parents'  minds,  the  subsequent  addition  of  Mason's 
mind  included." 

"That's  possible,  usual  and  comprehensible  enough,"  put 
in  the  doctor,  watching  him  with  amused  concentration, 
but  with  an  inner  excitement  scarcely  concealed. 

"Or"  resumed  Devonham,  "it  may  be  that  through 
these " 

"Through  his  mental  inheritance  from  his  parents  and 
from  Mason,  yes " 

" he  taps  the  most  primitive  stores  and  layers  of 

racial  memory  we  know.  The  world-memory,  if  I  dare 
put  it  so,  full  proof  being  lacking,  is  open  to  him " 

"Through  his  subconscious  powers,  of  course?" 

"That  is  your  usual  theory,  isn't  it?  We  have  there,  at 
any  rate,  a  working  hypothesis,  with  a  great  mass  of  evi- 
dence— generally  speaking — behind  it." 

"Don't  be  cynical,  Paul.  Is  this  'N.  H.'  merely  a 
Secondary  Personality,  or  is  it  the  real  central  self?  That's 
the  whole  point." 

"You  jump  ahead,  as  usual,"  replied  Devonham,  really 
smiling  for  the  first  lime,  though  his  face  instantly  grew 


48  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

serious  again.  "Edward,"  he  went  on,  "I  do  not  know,  I 
cannot  say,  I  dare  not — <lare  not  guess.  'N.  H.'  is  some- 
thing entirely  new  to  me,  and  I  admit  it"  He  seemed  to 
find  his  stride,  to  forget  himself.  "I  feel  far  from  cynical. 
'N.  H./  in  my  opinion,  is  exceptional.  My  notes  suggested 
it  long  ago.  He  has,  for  instance — at  least,  so  it  seems  to 
me — peculiar  powers." 

"Ah!" 

"Of  suggestion,  let  us  put  it." 

"Of  suggestion,  yes.  Get  on  with  it,  there's  a  good  fellow. 
I  felt  myself  an  extraordinary  vitality  about  him.  I  noticed 
it  at  once  at  Charing  Cross." 

"I  saw  you  did"  Devonham  looked  hard  at  him.  "You 
were  humming  to  yourself,  you  know." 

"I  didn't  know,"  was  the  surprised  reply,  "but  I  can 
well  believe  it.  I  felt  a  curious  pleasure  and  exhilaration." 

Devonham,  shrugging  his  shoulders  slightly,  resumed : 
"During  the  'LeVallon'  periods  he  is  ordinary,  though 
unusually  observant,  critical  and  intelligent;  during  the 
'X.  H.'  periods  he  becomes — er — super-normal.  If  you  felt 
this — felt  anything  in  the  station,  it  was  because  something 
in  you — called  up  the  'N.  H.'  aspect" 

"It's  quick  of  you  to  guess  that,"  said  Fillery,  with  quick 
appreciation.  "You  noticed  a  change  in  me,  well — but  the 
other ?  He  divined  my  'foreign'  blood,  you  think?" 

"It  is  enough  that  you  responded  and  felt  kinship.  Put 
it  that  way.  'N.  H.'  seems  to  me" — he  took  a  deeper  breath 
and  gave  a  sort  of  gasp — "in  some  ways — a  unique — being 
— as  I  said  before." 

"Tell  me,  if  you  can,"  said  Fillery,  lighting  his  own  pipe 
and  settling  back  into  his  chair,  "tell  me  a  little  about  your 
first  meeting  with  him  in  the  Jura  Mountains,  what  hap- 
pened and  so  forth.  I  remember,  of  course,  your  Notes. 
After  your  telegram,  I  read  'em  carefully."  He  glanced 
round  at  his  companion.  "They  were  very  honest,  Paul, 
I  thought.  Eh?"  He  was  unable  to  refuse  himself  the 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  49 

pleasure  of  the  little  dig.  "Honest  you  always  are,"  he 
added.  "We  couldn't  work  together  otherwise,  could  we?" 

Devonham,  deep  in  his  own  thoughts,  did  not  accept  the 
challenge.  He  turned  in  his  chair,  puffing  at  his  pipe, 

"I  can  give  you  briefly  what  happened  and  how  things 
went,"  he  said.  "The  place,  then,  first :  an  ordinary  peasant 
chalet  in  a  remote  Jura  valley,  difficult  of  access,  situated 
among  what  they  call  the  upper  pastures.  I  reached  it  by 
diligence  and  mule  late  in  the  afternoon.  A  peasant  in  a 
lower  valley  directed  me,  adding  that  'le  monsieur  anglais* 
was  dead  and  buried  two  days  before " 

"Mason,  that  is?" 

The  other  nodded.    "And  adding  that  'le  fou' " 

"LeVallon,  of  course?" 

" would  eat  me  alive  at  sight.  He  spoke  with  respect, 

however,  even  awe.  He  hoped  I  had  come  to  take  him 
away.  The  countryside  was  afraid  of  him. 

"The  valley  struck  me  as  intolerably  lonely,  but  of 
unusual  beauty.  Big  forests,  great  rocks,  and  tumbling 
streams  among  cliffs  and  pastures  made  it  exceptional.  The 
chalet  was  simple,  clean  and  comfortable.  It  was  really 
an  ideal  spot  for  a  thinker  or  a  student.  The  first  thing 
I  noticed  was  a  fire  burning  on  a  pile  of  rock  in  front  of 
the  building.  The  sun  was  setting,  and  its  last  rays  lit  the 
entire  little  glen — a  mere  gully  between  precipices  and 
forest  slopes — but  especially  lit  up  the  pile  of  rocks  where 
the  fire  burned,  so  that  I  saw  the  smoke,  blue,  red  and 
yellow,  and  the  figure  kneeling  before  it.  This  figure  was 
a  man,  half  naked,  and  of  magnificent  proportions.  When 
I  shouted " 

"You  would  shout,  of  course,"  Yet  he  did  not  say  it 
critically. 

" the  figure  rose  and  turned  and  came  to  meet  me. 

It  was  LeVallon." 

Devonham  paused  a  moment.  Fillery's  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  him. 


50  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"I  admit,"  Devonham  went  on,  conscious  of  the  other's 
inquiring  and  intent  expression,  "I  was  surprised  a  bit." 
He  smiled  his  faint,  unwilling  smile.  "The  figure  made 
me  start.  I  was  aware  of  an  emotion  I  am  not  subject  to 
— what  I  called  just  now  the  creeps.  I  thought,  at  last, 
I  had  really  seen  a — a  vision.  He  looked  so  huge,  so  won- 
derful, so  radiant.  It  was,  of  course,  the  effect  of  coloured 
smoke  and  magnifying  sunset,  added  to  his  semi-nakedness. 
To  the  waist  he  was  stripped.  But,  at  first,  his  size,  his 
splendour,  a  kind  of  radiance  borrowed  from  the  sunlight 
and  the  fire,  seemed  to  enlarge  him  beyond  human.  He 
seemed  to  dominate,  even  to  fill  the  little  valley. 

"I  stood  still,  uncertain  of  my  feelings.  There  was,  I 
think,  a  trace  of  fear  in  me.  I  waited  for  him  to  come  up 
to  me.  He  did  so.  He  stretched  out  a  hand.  I  took  it. 
And  what  do  you  think  he  said  ?" 

Fillery,  the  inner  excitement  and  delight  increasing  in 
him  as  he  listened,  stared  in  silence.  There  was  no  light- 
ness in  him  now. 

"  'Are  you  Fillery  ?'  That's  what  he  said,  and  the  first 
words  he  uttered.  'Are  you  Fillery?'  But  spoken  in  a 
way  I  find  difficult  to  reproduce.  He  made  the  name  sound 
like  a  rush  of  wind.  'F,'  of  course,  involves  a  draught  of 
breath  between  the  teeth,  I  know.  But  he  made  the  name 
sound  exactly  like  a  gush  of  wind  through  branches — that's 
the  nearest  I  can  get  to  it," 

"Well— and  then?" 

"Don't  be  impatient,  Edward.  I  try  to  be  accurate.  But 
really — what  happened  next  is  a  bit  beyond  any  experience 
that  we — I — have  yet  come  across.  And,  as  to  what  I  felt 
— well,  I  was  tired,  hungry,  thirsty.  I  wanted,  normally, 
rest  and  food  and  drink.  Yet  all  these  were  utterly  for- 
gotten. For  a  moment  or  two — I  admit  it — I  felt  as  if  I 
had  come  face  to  face  with  something  not  of  this  earth 
quite."  He  grinned.  "A  touch  of  gooseflesh  came  to  me 
for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  The  fellow's  size  and  radiance 
in  the  sunlight,  the  fact  that  he  stood  there  worshipping 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  51 

fire — always,  to  me,  the  most  wonderful  of  natural  phe- 
nomena— his  grandeur  and  nakedness — the  way  he  pro- 
nounced your  name  even — all  this — er — upset  my  judgment 
for  the  moment."  He  paused  again.  He  hesitated.  "A 
visual  hallucination,  due  to  fatigue,  can  be,  of  course,  very 
detailed  sometimes,"  he  added,  a  note  of  challenge  in  his 
tone. 

Fillery  watched  his  friend  narrowly,  as  he  stumbled 
among  the  details  of  what  he  evidently  found  a  difficult, 
almost  an  impossible  description. 

"Natural  enough,"  he  put  in.  "You'd  hardly  be  human 
yourself  if  you  felt  nothing  at  such  a  sight." 

"The  loneliness,  too,  increased  the  effect,"  went  on  the 
other,  "for  there  was  no  one  nearer  than  the  peasants  who 
had  directed  me  a  thousand  feet  below,  nor  was  there 
another  building  of  any  sort  in  sight.  Anyhow,  it  seemed, 
I  managed  my  strange  emotions  all  right,  for  the  young 
man  took  to  me  at  once.  He  left  the  fire,  if  reluctantly, 
singing  to  himself  a  sort  of  low  chanting  melody,  with 
perhaps  five  or  six  notes  at  most  in  it,  and  far  from 
unmusical " 

"He  explained  the  fire?  Was  he  actually  worshipping, 
I  mean?" 

"It  was  certainly  worship,  judging  by  the  expression  of 
his  face  and  his  gestures  of  reverence  and  happiness.  But 
I  asked  no  questions.  I  thought  it  best  just  to  accept,  or 
appear  to  accept,  the  whole  thing  as  natural.  He  said  some- 
thing about  the  Equinox,  but  I  did  not  catch  it  properly 
and  did  not  ask.  This  had  evidently  been  taught  him.  It 
was,  however,  the  22nd  of  September,  oddly  enough,  though 
the  gales  had  not  yet  come." 

"So  you  got  into  the  chalet  next?"  asked  the  other, 
noticing  the  gaps,  the  incoherence. 

"He  put  his  coat  on,  sat  down  with  me  to  a  meal  of 
bread  and  milk  and  cheese — meat  there  seemed  none  in 
the  building  anywhere.  This  meal  was,  if  you  understand 
me,  obeying  a  mere  habit  automatically.  He  did  just  what 


52  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

it  had  been  his  habit  to  do  with  Mason  all  these  years. 
He  got  the  stuff  himself — quickly,  effectively,  no  fumbling 
anywhere — and,  from  that  moment,  hardly  spoke  again  until 
we  left  two  days  later.  I  mean  that  literally.  All  he  said, 
when  I  tried  to  make  him  talk,  was,  'You  are  not  Fillery,' 
or  'Take  me  to  Fillery.  I  need  him/ 

"I  almost  felt  that  I  was  living  with  some  marvellously 
trained  animal,  of  extraordinary  intelligence,  gentle,  docile, 
friendly,  but  unhappy  because  it  had  lost  its  accustomed 
master.  But  on  the  other  hand — I  admit  it — I  was  con- 
scious of  a  certain  power  in  his  personality  beyond  me  to 
explain.  That,  really,  is  the  best  description  I  can  give 
you." 

"You  mentioned  the  name  of  Mason?"  asked  Fillery, 
avoiding  a  dozen  more  obvious  and  natural  questions. 

"Several  times.  But  his  only  reply  was  a  smile,  while 
he  repeated  the  name  himself,  adding  your  own  after  it: 
'Mason  Fillery,  Mason  Fillery,'  he  would  say,  smiling  with 
quiet  happiness.  'I  like  Fillery !'  " 

"The  nights?" 

"Briefly — I  was  glad  to  see  the  dawn.  We  had  separate 
rooms,  my  own  being  the  one  probably  where  Mason  had 
died  a  few  days  before.  But  it  was  not  that  I  minded  in 
the  least.  It  was  the  feeling — the  knowledge  in  fact — that 
my  companion  was  up  and  about  all  night  in  the  building 
or  out  of  doors.  I  heard  him  moving,  singing  quietly  to 
himself,  the  wooden  veranda  creaked  beneath  his  tread. 
He  was  active  all  through  the  darkness  and  cannot  have 
slept  at  all.  When  I  came  down  soon  after  dawn  he  was 
running  over  the  slopes  a  mile  away,  running  towards  the 
chalet,  too,  with  the  speed  and  lightness  of  a  deer.  He  had 
been  to  some  height,  I  think,  to  see  the  sun  rise  and  probably 
to  worship  it " 

"And  your  journey?    You  got  him  away  easily?" 

"He  was  only  too  ready  to  leave,  for  it  meant  coming 
to  you.  I  arranged  with  the  peasants  below  to  have  the 
chalet  closed  up,  took  my  charge  to  Neuchatel,  and  thence 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  53 

to  Berne,  where  I  bought  him  an  outfit,  and  arrived  in  due 
course,  as  you  know,  at  Charing  Cross." 

"His  first  sight  of  cities,  people,  trains,  steamers  and  the 
rest,  I  take  it.  Any  reactions?" 

"The  troubles  I  anticipated  did  not  materialize.  He 
came  like  a  lamb,  the  most  helpless  and  pathetic  lamb  I 
ever  saw.  He  stared  but  asked  no  questions.  I  think  he 
was  half  dazed,  even  stupefied  with  it  all." 

"Stupefied?" 

"An  odd  word  to  use,  I  know.  I  should  have  said  per- 
haps 'automatic'  rather.  He  was  so  open  to  my  suggestions, 
doing  what  my  mind  expected  him  to  do,  but  nothing  more 
— ah!  with  one  exception." 

Fillery  meant  to  hear  an  account  of  that  exception,  though 
the  other  would  willingly  have  foregone  its  telling  evi- 
dently. It  was  related,  Fillery  felt  sure,  to  the  unusual 
powers  Devonham  had  mentioned. 

"Oh,  you  shall  hear  it,"  said  the  latter  quickly,  "for 
what  it's  worth.  There's  no  need  to  exaggerate,  of  course." 
He  told  it  rapidly,  accurately,  no  doubt,  because  his  mind 
was  honest,  yet  without  comment  or  expression  in  his  voice 
and  face.  He  supplied  no  atmosphere. 

"I  had  got  him  like  a  lamb,  as  I  told  you,  to  Paris,  and 
it  was  during  the  Customs  examination  the — er — little  thing 
occurred.  The  man,  searching  through  his  trunk,  pulled 
out  a  packet  of  flat  papers  and  opened  it.  He  looked  them 
over  with  puzzled  interest,  turning  them  upside  down  to 
examine  them  from  every  possible  angle.  Then  he  asked 
a  trifle  unpleasantly  what  they  were.  I  hadn't  the  smallest 
idea  myself,  I  had  never  seen  them  before;  they  were  very 
carefully  wrapped  up.  LeVallon,  whose  sudden  excitement 
increased  the  official's  interest,  told  him  that  they  were 
star-and-weather  maps.  It  doubtless  was  the  truth ;  he  had 
made  them  with  Mason ;  but  they  were  queer-looking  papers 
to  have  at  such  a  time,  hidden  away,  too,  at  the  bottom  of 
the  trunk;  and  LeVallon's  manner  and  expression  did  not 
help  to  disarm  the  man's  evident  suspicion.  He  asked  a 


54  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

number  of  pointed  questions  in  a  very  disagreeable  way — 
who  made  them,  for  what  purpose,  how  they  were  used, 
and  whether  they  were  connected  with  aviation.  I  trans- 
lated, of  course.  I  explained  their  innocence " 

"LeVallon's  excitement?"  asked  Fillery.  "What  form 
did  it  take?  Rudeness,  anger,  violence  of  any  sort?"  He 
was  aware  his  friend  would  have  liked  to  shirk  these 
details. 

"Nothing  of  the  kind."  He  hesitated  briefly,  then  went 
on.  "He  behaved,  rather,  as  though — well,  as  a  devout 
Catholic  might  have  behaved  if  his  crucifix  or  some  holy 
relic  were  being  mauled.  The  maps  were  sacred.  Symbols 
possibly.  Heaven  knows  what!  He  tried  to  take  them 
back.  The  official,  as  a  natural  result,  became  still  more 
suspicious  and,  of  course,  offensive  too.  My  explanations 
and  expostulations  were  quite  useless,  for  he  didn't  even 
listen  to  them." 

Devonham  was  now  approaching  the  part  of  the  story 
he  least  wished  to  describe.  He  played  for  time.  He  gave 
details  of  the  ensuing  altercation. 

"What  happened  in  the  end?"  Fillery  at  length  inter- 
rupted. "What  did  LeVallon  do?  There  were  no  arrests, 
I  take  it?"  he  added  with  a  smile. 

Paul  coughed  and  fidgeted.  He  told  the  literal  truth, 
however. 

"LeVallon,  after  listening  for  a  long  time  to  the  con- 
versation he  could  not  understand,  suddenly  took  his  fingers 
off  the  papers.  The  man's  dirty  hand  still  held  them  tightly 
on  the  grimy  counter.  LeVallon  began — or — he  suddenly 
began  to  breathe — well — heavily  rather." 

"Rhythmically?" 

"Heavily,"  insisted  the  other.  "In  a  curious  way,  any- 
how," he  added,  determined  to  keep  strictly  to  the  truth, 
"not  unlike  Heathcote  when  he  put  himself  automatically 
into  trance  and  then  told  us  what  was  going  on  at  the 
other  end  of  England.  You  remember  the  case."  He 
paused  a  moment  again,  as  if  to  recall  exactly  what  had 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  55 

occurred.  "It's  not  easy  to  describe,  Edward,"  he  con- 
tinued, looking  up.  "You  remember  that  huge  draughty 
hall  where  they  examine  luggage  at  the  Lyons  Station.  I 
can't  explain  it.  But  that  breathing  somehow  caught  the 
draughts,  used  them  possibly,  in  any  case  increased  them. 
A  wind  came  through  the  great  hall.  I  can't  explain  it," 
he  repeated,  "I  can  only  tell  you  what  happened.  That  wind 
most  certainly  came  pouring  steadily  through,  for  I  felt  it 
myself,  and  saw  it  blow  upon  the  fluttering  papers.  The 
heat  in  the  salle  at  the  same  moment  seemed  to  grow  intense. 
Not  an  oppressive  heat,  though.  Radiant  heat,  rather.  It 
felt,  I  mean,  like  a  fierce  sunlight.  I  looked  up,  almost 
expecting  to  see  a  great  light  from  which  it  came.  It  was 
then — at  this  very  moment — the  Frenchman  turned  as  if 
someone  touched  him." 

"You  felt  anything,  Paul?" 

"Yes,"  admitted  the  other  slowly. 

Fillery  waited. 

"A — what  I  must  call — a  thrill."  His  voice  was  lower 
now. 

"Of ?"  his  Chief  persisted. 

Devonham  waited  a  full  ten  seconds  before  reply.  He 
again  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little.  Apparently  he  sought 
his  words  with  honest  care  that  included  also  intense  reluc- 
tance and  disapproval: 

"Loveliness,  romance,  enchantment;  but,  above  all,  I 
think — power."  He  ground  out  the  confession  slowly.  "By 
power  I  mean  a  sort  of  confidence  and  happiness." 

"Increase  of  vitality,  call  it.  Intensification  of  your  con- 
sciousness." 

"Possibly.  A  bigger  perspective  suddenly,  a  bigger  scale 
of  life;  something — er — a  bit  wild,  but  certainly — er — 
uncommonly  stimulating.  The  best  word,  I  think,  is  liberty, 
perhaps.  An  immense  and  careless  sense  of  liberty."  And 
Fillery,  knowing  the  value  of  superlatives  in  Devonham's 
cautious  mind,  felt  satisfied.  He  asked  quietly  what  the 
official  did  next. 


56  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"Stood  stock  still  at  first.  Then  his  face  changed;  he 
smiled;  he  looked  up  understandingly,  sympathetically,  at 
LeVallon.  He  spoke :  'My  father,  too,'  he  said  with  admira- 
tion, 'had  a  big  telescope.  Monsieur  is  an  astronomer.' 

"'One  of  the  greatest/  I  added  quickly;  'these  charts 
are  of  infinite  value  to  France.'  No  sense  of  comedy 
touched  me  anywhere,  the  ludicrous  was  absent.  The  man 
bowed,  as  carefully,  respect  in  every  gesture,  he  replaced 
the  maps,  marked  the  trunk  with  his  piece  of  chalk,  and 
let  us  go,  helping  in  every  way  he  could." 

Devonham  drew  a  long  breath,  glad  that  he  had  relieved 
himself  of  his  unwelcome  duty.  He  had  told  the  literal 
truth. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  Fillery  said,  half  to  himself  per- 
haps, "A  breath  of  bigger  consciousness,  his  imagination 
touched,  the  subconscious  wakened,  and  intelligence  the 
natural  result."  He  turned  to  his  colleague.  "Interesting, 
Paul,  very,"  he  added  in  a  louder  tone,  "and  not  easy  to 
explain,  I  grant.  The  official  we  do  not  know,  but  you, 
at  any  rate,  are  not  a  good  subject  for  hypnotic  suggestion !" 

For  some  time  Devonham  said  nothing.  Presently  he 
spoke : 

"Fillery,  I  tell  you — really  I  love  the  fellow.  He's  the 
most  lovable  thing  in  human  shape  I  ever  saw.  He  gets 
into  your  heart  so  strangely.  We  must  heal  him." 

The  other  sighed,  quickly  smothering  it,  yet  not  before 
Devonham  had  noticed  it.  They  did  not  look  at  one  an- 
other for  some  seconds,  and  there  was  a  certain  tenseness, 
a  sense  of  deep  emotion  in  the  air  that  each,  possibly, 
sought  to  hide  from  the  other. 

Devonham  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence  that  had 
fallen  between  them. 

"To  be  quite  frank — it's  LeVallon  that  appeals  most  to 
me,"  he  said,  as  if  to  himself,  "whereas  you,  Edward,  I 
believe,  are  more — more  interested  in  the  other  aspect  of 
him.  It's  'N.  H.'  that  interests  you." 

No   challenge  was   intended,   yet  the  glove  was   flung. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  57 

Fillery  said  nothing  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then  he  looked 
up,  and  their  eyes  met  across  the  smoke-laden  atmosphere. 
It  was  close  on  midnight.  The  world  lay  very  still  and 
hushed  about  the  house. 

"It  is,"  he  said  quietly,  "a  pathetic  and  inspiring  case. 
He  is  deserving  of" — he  chose  his  words  slowly  and  with 
care — "our  very  best,"  he  concluded  shortly. 

"And  now,"  he  added  quickly,  "you're  tired  out,  and  I 
ought  to  have  let  you  have  a  night's  sleep  before  taxing  you 
like  this."  He  poured  out  two  glasses  of  whisky.  "Let  us 
drink  anyhow  to  success  and  healing  of  body,  mind — and 
soul." 

"Body,  mind  and — nerves,"  said  Devonham  slowly,  as 
he  drank  the  toast. 

"The  reason  I  had  none  of  the  trouble  I  anticipated," 
remarked  Devonham,  as  he  sipped  the  reviving  liquor,  "is 
simple  enough." 

"There  are  two  periods,  of  course,    I  guessed  that." 

"Exactly.  There  is  the  LeVallon  period,  when  he  is 
quiescent,  normal,  very  charming  into  the  bargain,  more 
like  a  good  child  or  trained  animal  or  happy  peasant,  if 
you  like  it  better,  than  a  grown  man.  And  there  is  the 
*N.  H.'  period,  when  he  is — otherwise." 

"Ah!" 

"I  arrived  just  at  the  transition  moment,  so  to  speak.  It 
was  during  the  change  I  reached  the  chalet." 

"Precisely."    Fillery  looked  up,  smiled  and  nodded. 

"That's  about  the  truth,"  repeated  Devonham,  putting  his 
glass  down.  He  thought  for  a  moment,  then  added  slowly, 
"I  think  that  fire  of  his,  the  worship,  singing — at  the 
autumnal  equinox — marked  the  change.  'N.  H,'  at  once 
after  that,  slipped  back  into  the  unconscious  state.  Le- 
Vallon emerged.  It  was  with  LeVallon  only  or  chiefly,  / 
had  to  deal.,  He  became  so  very  quiet,  dazed  a  little,  half 
there,  as  we  call  it,  and  almost  entirely  silent.  He  retained 
little,  if  any,  memory  of  the  *N.  H.'  period,  although  it 
lies,  I  think,  just  beneath  the  surface  only.  The  LeVallon 


58  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

personality,  you  see,  is  not  very  positive,  is  it?  It  seems  a 
quiet,  negative  state,  a  condition  almost  of  rest,  in  fact." 

Fillery  listening  attentively,  made  no  rejoinder. 

"We  may  expect,"  continued  Devonham,  "these  alternat- 
ing states,  I  think.  The  frontier  between  them  is,  as  I  said, 
a  narrow  one.  Indeed,  often  they  merge  or  interpenetrate 
In  my  judgment,  the  main,  important  part  of  his  conscious- 
ness, that  parent  Self,  is  LeVallon — not  'N.  H.'"  The 
voice  was  slightly  strident. 

"Ah!" 

It  so  happened  that,  in  the  act  of  exchanging  these  last 
words,  they  both  looked  up  toward  the  ceiling,  where  a 
moth  buzzed  round  and  round,  banging  itself  occasionally 
against  the  electric  light.  Whether  it  was  this  that  drew 
their  sight  upwards  simultaneously,  or  whether  it  was  that 
some  other  sound  in  the  stillness  of  the  night  had  caught 
their  strained  attention,  is  uncertain.  The  same  thought, 
at  any  rate,  was  in  both  minds  at  that  instant,  the  same 
freight  of  meaning  trailing  behind  it  invisibly  across  the 
air.  Their  hearts  burned  within  them;  the  two  faces  up- 
ward turned,  the  lips  a  little  parted  as  when  listening  is 
intense,  the  heads  thrown  back.  For  in  the  room  above  that 
ceiling,  asleep  at  this  moment,  lay  the  subject  of  their 
long  discussion;  only  a  few  inches  of  lath  and  plaster 
separated  them  from  the  strange  being  who,  dropping  out 
of  space,  as  it  were,  had  come  to  make  his  home  with  them. 
A  being,  lonely  utterly  in  the  world,  unique  in  kind  perhaps, 
his  nature  as  yet  undecipherable,  lay  trustingly  unconscious 
in  that  upper  chamber.  The  two  men  felt  the  gravity,  the 
responsibility  of  their  charge.  The  same  thought  had  vividly 
touched  them  both  at  the  same  instant. 

A  few  minutes  later  they  were  still  standing,  facing  one 
another.  They  were  of  a  height,  but  compared  to  Fillery 's 
big  frame  and  rugged  head,  his  friend's  appearance  was 
almost  slight.  Devonham,  for  all  his  qualifications,  looked 
painfully  like  a  shopwalker.  They  exchanged  this  steady 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  59 

gaze  for  a  few  seconds  without  speaking.  Then  the  older 
man  said  quietly: 

"Paul,  I  understandj  and  I  respect  your  reticence.  I  think 
I  can  agree  with  it." 

He  placed  a  hand  upon  the  other's  shoulder,  smiling 
gently,  even  tenderly. 

"You  have  told  me  much,  but  you  have  not  told  me  all! 
The  chief  part — you  have  intentionally  omitted." 

"For  the  present,  at  any  rate,"  was  the  reply,  given  with- 
out flinching. 

"Your  reasons  are  sound,  your  judgment  perhaps  right. 
I  ask  no  questions.  What  happened,  what  you  saw,  at  the 
chalet ;  the  'peculiar  powers'  you  mentioned ;  all,  in  fact, 
that  you  think  it  wise  to  keep  to  yourself  for  the  moment, 
I  leave  there  willingly." 

He  spoke  gravely,  sincere  emotion  in  the  eyes  and  tone. 
It  was  in  a  lower  voice  he  added : 

"The  responsibility,  of  course,  is  yours." 

Devonham  returned  the  steady  gaze,  pondering  his  reply 
a  moment. 

"I  can — and  do  accept  it,"  he  answered.  "You  have  read 
my  thoughts  correctly  as  usual,  Edward.  I  think  you  know 
quite  enough  already — what  with  my  Notes  and  Mason's 
letter — even  too  much.  Besides,  why  complicate  it  with  an 
account  of  what  were  doubtless  mere  mental  pictures — 
hallucinations — on  my  part?  This  is  a  matter,"  he  went 
on  slowly,  "a  case,  we  dare  not  trifle  with;  there  may  be 
strange  and  terrible  afflictions  in  it  later;  we  must  remain 
unbiased."  The  anxiety  deepened  on  his  face. 

"True,  true,"  murmured  the  other.  "God  bless  the  boy! 
May  his  own  gods  bless  him!" 

"In  other  words,  it  will  need  your  clearest,  soundest 
judgment,  your  finest  skill,  your  very  best,  as  you  said 
yourself  just  now."  He  used  a  firmer,  yet  also  a  softer 
tone  suddenly:  "Edward,  you  know  your  own  mind,  its 
contents,  its  suppressions,  its  origin;  your  refusal  of  the 


60  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

love  of  women,  your  deep  powerful  dreams  that  you  have 
suppressed  and  put  away.  Promise  me" — the  voice  and 
manner  were  very  earnest — "that  you  will  not  communicate 
these  to  him  in  any  way,  and  that  you  will  keep  your  judg- 
ment absolutely  unbiased  and  untainted."  He  looked  at  his 
old  friend  and  paused.  "Only  your  purest  judgment  of 
what  is  to  come  can  help.  You  promise." 

Fillery  sighed  a  scarcely  noticeable  sigh.  "I  promise  you, 
Paul.  You  are  wise — and  you  are  right,"  he  said.  "On 
the  other  hand,  let  me  say  one  thing  to  you  in  my  turn. 
This  theory  of  heredity  and  of  mental  telepathic  trans- 
ference— the  idea  that  all  his  mind's  content  is  derived 
from  his  parents  and  from  Mason — we  cannot,  remember, 
force  this  transference  and  interchange  too  far.  I  ask 
only  this:  be  fair  and  open  yourself  with  all  that  follows." 

Devonham  raised  his  voice:  "Nor  can  we,  apparently, 
sets  limits  to  it,  Edward.  But — to  be  fair  and  open-minded 
— I  give  my  promise  too." 

Thus,  in  the  little  downstairs  room  of  a  Private  Home 
for  Incurable  Mental  Cases,  not  a  Lunatic  Asylum,  though 
sometimes  perhaps  next  door  to  it,  these  two  men,  deeply 
intrigued  by  a  new  "Case"  that  passed  their  understanding, 
as  it  exceeded  their  knowledge,  practice  and  experience, 
swore  to  each  other  to  observe  carefully,  to  report  faith- 
fully, and  to  experiment,  if  experiment  proved  necessary, 
with  honest  and  affectionate  uprightness. 

Their  views  were,  obviously,  not  the  same.  Devonham, 
temperamentally  opposed  to  radical  innovations,  believed 
it  was  a  case  of  divided  personality — hundreds  of  such  cases 
had  passed  through  their  hands.  Forced  to  accept  extended 
telepathy — that  all  minds  can  on  occasion  share  one  an- 
other's content,  and  that  even  a  racial  and  a  world-memory 
can  be  tapped — he  feared  that  his  Chief  might  influence 
LeVallon,  and  twist,  thus,  the  phenomena  to  a  special  end. 
He  knew  Edward  Fillery's  story.  He  feared,  for  the  sake 
of  truth,  the  mental  transference.  He  had,  perhaps,  other 
fears  as  well. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  61 

Fillery,  on  the  other  hand,  believing  as  much,  and  know- 
ing more  than  his  colleague,  saw  in  "N.  H."  a  unique  pos- 
sibility. He  was  thrilled  and  startled  with  a  half-impossible 
hope.  He  felt  as  if  someone  ran  beside  his  life,  bearing 
impossible  glad  tidings,  an  unexpected,  half-incredible  figure, 
the  tidings  marvellously  bright.  He  hoped,  he  already 
wished  to  think,  that  "N.  H."  might  shadow  forth  a  promise 
of  some  magical  advance  for  the  ultimate  benefit  of  the 
Race.  .  .  . 

The  thinkers  were  crying  on  the  housetops  that  progress 
was  a  myth,  that  each  wave  of  civilization  at  its  height 
reached  the  same  average  level  without  ever  passing  further. 
The  menace  to  the  present  civilization,  already  crumbling, 
was  in  full  swing  everywhere ;  knowledge,  culture,  learning 
threatened  in  due  course  with  the  chaos  of  destruction  that 
has  so  far  been  the  invariable  rule.  The  one  hope  of  saving 
the  world,  cried  religion,  lay  in  substituting  spiritual  for 
material  values — a  Utopian  dream  at  best.  The  one  chance, 
said  science,  on  the  other  hand,  was  that  civilization  to-day 
is  continuous  and  not  isolated. 

The  best  hope,  believed  Fillery,  the  only  hope,  lay  in 
raising  the  individual  by  the  drawing  up  into  full  conscious- 
ness of  the  limitless  powers  now  hidden  and  inactive  in  his 
deeper  self — the  so-called  subliminal  faculties.  With  these 
greater  powers  must  come  also  greater  moral  development. 

Already,  with  his  uncanny  insight,  derived  from  knowl- 
edge of  himself,  he  had  piercingly  divined  in  "N.  H."  a 
being,  whatever  he  might  be,  whose  nature  acted  auto- 
matically and  directly  upon  the  subconscious  self  in  every- 
body. 

That  bright  messenger,  running  past  his  life,  had  looked, 
as  with  fire  and  tempest,  straight  into  his  eyes. 

It  was  long  after  one  o'clock  when  the  two  men  said 
good-night,  and  went  to  their  rooms.  Devonham  was  soon 
in  bed,  though  not  soon  asleep.  Exhausted  physically 
though  he  was,  his  mind  burned  actively.  His  recent 


62  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

memories  were  vivid.  All  he  had  purposely  held  back 
from  Fillery  returned  with  power.  .  .  . 

The  uncertainty  whether  he  had  experienced  hallucina- 
tion, or  had  actually,  as  by  telepathic  transfer  from  Le- 
Vallon,  touched  another  state  of  consciousness,  kept  sleep 
far  away.  .  .  . 

His  brain  was  far  too  charged  for  easy  slumber.  He 
feared  for  his  dear,  faithful  friend,  his  colleague,  the  skil- 
ful, experienced,  yet  sorely  tempted  mind — tempted  by 
Nature  and  by  natural  weaknesses  of  birth  and  origin — 
who  now  shared  with  him  the  care  and  healing  of  a  Case 
that  troubled  his  being  too  deeply  for  slumber  to  come 
quickly. 

Yet  he  had  done  well  to  keep  these  memories  from 
Edward  Fillery.  If  Fillery  once  knew  what  he  knew,  his 
judgment  and  his  scientific  diagnosis  must  be  drawn  hope- 
lessly away  from  what  he  considered  the  best  treatment: 
the  suppression  of  "N.  H."  and  the  making  permanent  of 
"LeVallon."  .  .  . 

He  fell  asleep  eventually,  towards  dawn,  dreaming  impos- 
sible, radiant  dreams  of  a  world  he  might  have  hoped  for, 
yet  could  not,  within  the  limits  of  his  little  cautious,  accurate 
mind,  believe  in.  Dreams  that  inspire,  yet  sadden,  haunted 
his  release  from  normal  consciousness.  Someone  had 
walked  upon  his  life,  leaving  a  growth  of  everlasting  flowers 
in  their  magical  tread,  though  his  mind — his  stolid,  cautious 
mind — had  no  courage  for  the  plucking.  .  .  . 

And  while  he  slept,  as  the  hours  slipped  from  west  to 
east,  his  chief  and  colleague,  lying  also  sleepless,  rose  sud- 
denly before  the  late  autumn  dawn,  and  walked  quietly 
along  the  corridor  towards  the  Private  Suite  where  the  new 
patient  rested.  His  mind  was  quiet,  yet  his  inner  mind 
alert.  His  thoughts,  his  hopes,  his  dreams,  these  lay,  per- 
haps, beyond  human  computation.  He  was  calmer  far  than 
his  assistant,  though  more  strangely  tempted. 

It  was  just  growing  light,  the  corridor  was  cold.  A  cool, 
damp  air  came  through  the  open  windows  and  the  linoleum 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  63 

felt  like  ice  against  the  feet.  The  house  lay  dead  and 
silent.  Pausing  a  moment  by  a  window,  he  listened  to  the 
chattering  of  early  sparrows.  He  felt  chill  and  hungry, 
unrested  too,  though  far  from  sleepy.  He  was  aware  of 
London — bleak,  heavy,  stolid  London  town.  The  troubles 
of  modern  life,  of  Labour,  Politics,  Taxes,  cost  of  living, 
all  the  common,  daily  things  came  in  with  the  cheerless 
morning  air. 

He  reached  the  door  he  sought,  and  very  softly  opened 
it. 

The  radiance  met  him  in  the  face,  so  that  he  almost 
gasped.  The  scent  of  flowers,  the  sting  of  sharp,  keen 
forest  winds,  the  exhilaration  of  some  distant  mountain- 
top.  There  was,  actually,  a  tang  of  dawn,  known  only  to 
those  who  have  tasted  the  heights  at  sunrise  with  the  heart. 
And  into  his  heart,  singing  with  happy  confidence,  rose  a 
sense  of  supreme  joy  and  confidence  that  mastered  all  little 
earthly  woes  and  pains,  and  walked  among  the  stars. 

The  occupant  of  the  bed  lay  very  still.  His  shining  hair 
was  spread  upon  the  pillow.  The  splendid  limbs  were 
motionless.  The  chest  and  arms  were  bare,  the  single 
covering  sheet  tossed  off.  The  strange,  wild  face  wore 
happiness  and  peace  upon  its  skin,  the  features  very  calm, 
the  mouth  relaxed.  It  almost  seemed  a  god  lay  sleeping 
there  upon  a  little  human  bed. 

How  long  he  stood  and  stared  he  did  not  know,  but 
suddenly,  the  light  increased.  The  curtains  stirred  about 
the  bed. 

With  a  marvellous  touch  the  separate  details  merged 
and  quickened  into  life.  The  room  was  changed.  The 
occupant  of  the  bed  moved  very  swiftly,  as  through  the 
open  window  came  the  first  touch  of  exhilarating  light. 
Gold  stole  across  the  lintel,  breaking  over  the  roofs  of  slates 
beyond.  The  leafless  elm  trees  shimmered  faintly.  The 
telegraph  wires  shone.  There  was  a  running  sparkle.  It 
was  dawn. 

The  figure  leaped,  danced — no  other  word  describes  it 


64  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

— to  the  open  window  where  the  light  and  air  gushed  in, 
spread  wide  its  arms,  lowered  its  radiant  head,  began  to 
sing  in  low,  melodious  rhythmic  chant — and  Fillery,  as 
silently  as  he  had  come,  withdrew  and  closed  the  door 
unseen.  His  heart  moved  strangely,  but — his  promise  held 
him.  . 


CHAPTER  VII 

r  I  ^HE  following  days  it  seemed  to  both  Fillery  and 
J.  Devonham  that  their  discussion  of  the  first  night  had 
been  pitched  in  too  intense,  too  serious  a  key.  Their  patient 
was  so  commonplace  again,  so  ordinary.  He  made  him- 
self quite  at  home,  seemed  contented  and  uncurious,  taking 
it  for  granted  he  had  come  to  stay  for  ever,  apparently. 

Apart  from  his  strange  beauty,  his  size,  virility  and  a 
general  impression  he  conveyed  of  immense  energies  he 
was  too  easy-going  to  make  use  of,  he  might  have  passed 
for  a  peasant,  a  countryman  to  whom  city  life  was  new; 
but  an  educated,  or  at  least  half-educated,  countryman.  He 
was  so  big,  yet  never  gauche.  He  was  neither  stupid  nor 
ill-informed ;  the  garden  interested  him,  he  knew  much 
about  the  trees  and  flowers,  birds  and  insects  too.  He 
discussed  the  weather,  prevailing  wind,  moisture,  prospects 
of  change  and  so  forth  with  a  judgment  based  on  what 
seemed  a  natural,  instinctive  knowledge.  The  gardener 
looked  on  him  with  obvious  respect. 

"Such  nice  manners  and  such  a  steady  eye,"  Mrs.  Soames, 
the  matron,  mentioned,  too,  approvingly  to  Devonham. 
"But  a  lot  in  him  he  doesn't  understand  himself,  unless 
I'm  wrong.  Not  much  the  matter  with  his  nerves,  any- 
how. Once  he's  married — unless  I'm  much  mistaken — eh, 
sir?" 

He  was  quiet,  talking  little,  and  spent  the  morning  over 
the  books  Fillery  had  placed  purposely  in  his  sitting-room, 
books  on  simple  physics,  natural  history  and  astronomy.  It 
was  the  latter  that  absorbed  him  most ;  he  pored  over  them 
by  the  hour. 

65 


66  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Fillery  explained  the  situation  so  far  as  he  thought  wise. 
The  young  man  was  honesty  and  simple  innocence,  but  only 
vaguely  interested  in  the  life  of  the  great  city  he  now 
experienced  for  the  first  time.  He  had  in  his  luggage  a 
copy  of  the  Will  by  which  Mason  had  left  him  everything, 
and  he  was  pleased  to  know  himself  well  provided  for. 
Of  Mason,  however,  he  had  only  a  dim,  uncertain,  almost 
an  impersonal  memory,  as  of  someone  encountered  in  a 
dream. 

"I  suppose  something's  happened  to  me,"  he  said  to 
Fillery,  his  language  normal  and  quite  ordinary  again.  He 
spoke  with  a  slight  foreign  accent.  "There  was  somebody, 
of  course,  who  looked  after  me  and  lived  with  me,  but  I 
can't  remember  who  or  where  it  was.  I  was  very  happy," 
he  added,  "and  yet  ...  I  miss  something." 

Dr.  Fillery,  remembering  his  promise,  did  not  press  him. 

"It  will  all  come  back  by  degrees,"  he  remarked  in  a 
sympathetic  tone.  "In  the  meantime,  you  must  make  your- 
self at  home  here  with  us,  for  as  long  as  you  like.  You 
are  quite  free  in  every  way.  I  want  you  to  be  happy 
here." 

"I  live  with  you  always,"  was  the  reply.  "There  are 
things  I  want  to  tell  you,  ask  you  too."  He  paused,  look- 
ing thoughtful.  "There  was  someone  I  told  all  to  once." 

"Come  to  me  with  everything.  I'll  help  you  always,  so 
far  as  I  can."  He  placed  a  hand  upon  his  knee. 

"There  are  feelings,  big  feelings  I  cannot  reach  quite, 
but  that  make  me  feel  different" — he  smiled  beautifully — 
"from — others."  Quick  as  lightning  he  had  changed  the 
sentence  at  the  last  word,  substituting  "others"  for  "you." 
Had  he  been  aware  of  a  slight  uneasy  emotion  in  his 
listener's  heart?  It  had  hardly  betrayed  itself  by  any  visible 
sign,  yet  he  had  instantly  divined  its  presence.  Such  evi- 
dences of  a  subtle,  intimate,  understanding  were  not  lack- 
ing. Yet  Fillery  admirably  restrained  himself. 

"There  are  bright  places  I  have  lost,"  he  went  on  frankly, 
no  sign  of  shy  reserve  in  him.  "I  feel  confused,  lost  some- 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  67 

where,  as  if  I  didn't  belong  here.  I  feel" — he  used  an  odd 
word — "doubled."  His  face  shaded  a  little. 

"Big  overpowering  London  is  bound  to  affect  you,"  put 
in  Fillery,  who  had  noticed  the  rapid  discernment,  "after 
living  among  woods  and  mountains,  as  you  have  lived,  for 
years.  All  will  come  right  in  a  little  time;  we  must  settle 
down  a  bit  first " 

"Woods  and  mountains,"  repeated  the  other,  in  a  half- 
dreamy  voice,  his  eyes  betraying  an  effort  to  follow  thought 
elsewhere.  "Of  course,  yes — woods  and  mountains  and 
hot  living  sunlight — and  the  winds " 

His  companion  shifted  the  conversation  a  little.  He 
suggested  a  line  of  reading  and  study.  .  .  .  They  talked 
also  of  such  ordinary  but  necessary  things  as  providing  a 
wardrobe,  of  food,  exercise,  companionship  of  his  own 
age,  and  so  forth — all  the  commonplace  details  of  ordinary 
daily  life,  in  fact.  The  exchange  betrayed  nothing  of  inter- 
est, nothing  unusual.  They  mentioned  theatres,  music, 
painting,  and,  beyond  the  natural  curiosity  of  youth  that 
was  ignorant  of  these,  no  detail  was  revealed  that  need 
have  attracted  the  attention  of  anybody,  neither  of  doctor, 
psychologist,  nor  student  of  human  nature.  With  the  single 
exception  that  the  past  years  had  been  obliterated  from 
memory,  though  much  that  had  been  acquired  in  them  re- 
mained, there  was  not  noticeable  peculiarity  of  any  sort. 
Both  language  and  point  of  view  were  normal. 

This  was  obviously  LeVallon.  The  "N.  H."  personality 
scarcely  cast  a  shadow  even.  Yet  "N.  H.,"  the  doctor  was 
quick  to  see,  lay  ready  and  waiting  just  below  the  surface. 
There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  which  was  the  central 
self  and  which  its  transient  projection,  the  secondary  per- 
sonality. Again,  as  he  sat  and  talked,  he  had  the  odd 
impression  that  someone  with  bright  tidings  ran  swiftly 
past  his  life,  perhaps  towards  it. 

The  swift  messenger  was  certainly  not  LeVallon.  Le- 
Vallon, indeed,  was  but  a  shadow  cast  before  this  glad, 
bright  visitant.  Thus  he  felt,  at  any  rate.  LeVallon  was 


68  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

an  empty  simulacrum  left  behind  while  "N.  H."  rested, 
or  was  active  upon  other  things,  things  natural  to  him, 
elsewhere.  LeVallon  was  an  arm,  a  limb,  a  feeler  that 
"N.  H."  thrust  out.  At  Charing  Cross,  for  instance,  for 
a  brief  moment  only,  "N.  H."  had  peered  across  his 
shoulder,  then  withdrawn  again.  In  the  car  had  sat  by 
his  side  LeVallon.  The  being  he  now  chatted  with  was 
also  LeVallon  only. 

But  in  his  own  heart,  deep  down,  hidden  yet  eager  to 
break  loose,  lay  his  own  deeper  self  that  burned  within  him. 
This,  the  important  part  of  him,  yearned  towards  "N.  H." 
And  up  rose  the  strange  symbol  that  always  appeared  when 
his  deepest,  perhaps  his  subliminal  self  was  stirred.  That 
lost  radiant  valley  in  the  haunted  Caucasus  shone  close 
and  brimming  over  ,  .  .  with  light,  with  flowers,  with 
splendid  winds  and  fire,  symbols  of  a  vaster,  grander,  happier 
life,  though  perhaps  a  life  not  yet  within  the  range  of 
normal  human  consciousness.  .  .  .  The  fiery  symbol  flashed 
and  passed. 

Curious  thoughts  and  pictures  rose  flaming  in  his  mind, 
persistent  ideas  that  bore  no  possible  relation  to  his  intellec- 
tual, reasoning  life.  Passing  across  the  background  of  his 
brain,  as  with  waves  of  heat  and  colour,  they  were  cor- 
related somewhere  with  harmonious  sound.  Music,  that  is, 
came  with  them,  as  though  inspiration  brought  its  own  sound 
with  it  that  made  singing  natural.  They  haunted  him,  these 
vague,  pleasurable  phantasmagoria  that  were  connected,  he 
felt  sure,  with  music,  as  with  childhood's  lost  imaginings. 
For  a  long  time  he  searched  in  vain  for  their  source  and 
origin.  Then,  suddenly,  he  remembered.  He  heard  his 
father's  gruff,  humorous  voice:  "There's  not  a  scrap  of 
evidence,  of  course.  .  .  ."  And,  sharply,  vividly,  the  buried 
memory  gave  up  its  dead.  His  childish  question  went 
crashing  through  the  air:  "Are  we  the  only  beings  in  the 
world?" 

"Nothing  is  ever  lost,"  he  reminded  himself  with  a  smile 
that  Devonham  assuredly  never  saw.  "Every  seed  must 
bear  its  fruit  in  time." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  69 

And  emotion  surged  through  him  from  the  remorseless 
records  of  his  underself.  The  childhood's  love,  with  its 
correlative  of  deep,  absolute  belief,  returned  upon  him, 
linked  on  somehow  to  that  old  familiar  symbol  he  knew  to 
mean  his  awakening  subconscious  being — a  flowering 
Caucasian  vale  of  sun  and  wind.  A  belief,  he  realized, 
especially  a  belief  of  childhood,  remains  for  ever  inex- 
pugnable, eternal,  prolific  seed  of  future  harvests. 

The  unstable  in  him  betrayed  its  ineradicable,  dangerous 
streak.  There  rose  upon  him  in  a  cloud  strange  notions 
that  inflamed  imagination  sweetly.  Later  reading,  indeed, 
had  laid  flesh  upon  the  skeleton  of  the  boyish  notion,  though 
derived  in  the  first  instance  he  certainly  knew  not  whence. 
The  literature  and  tradition  of  the  East,  he  recalled,  peopled 
the  elements  with  conscious  life,  to  which  the  world's  fairy- 
tales— remnant  of  lost  knowledge  possibly — added  nerves 
and  heart  and  blood.  In  all  human  bodies,  at  any 
rate,  dwelt  not  necessarily  always  human  spirits,  human 
souls.  .  .  . 

He  checked  himself  with  a  smile  he  would  have  liked  to 
call  a  chuckle,  but  that  yet  held  some  inexplicable  happiness 
at  its  heart.  His  rugged,  eager  face,  its  expression  bitten 
deeply  by  experience,  turned  curiously  young.  There  rushed 
through  him  the  Eastern  conception  of  another  system  of 
life,  another  evolution,  deathless,  divine,  important,  the 
Order  of  the  Devas,  a  series  of  Nature  Beings  entirely 
apart  from  human  categories.  They  included  many  degrees, 
from  fairies  to  planetary  spirits,  the  gods,  so  called;  and 
their  duties,  work  and  purposes  were  concerned,  he  remem- 
bered, with  carrying  out  the  Laws  of  Nature,  the  busy 
tending  of  all  forms  and  structures,  from  the  elaborately 
marvellous  infusoria  in  a  drop  of  stagnant  water,  the  growth 
of  crystals,  the  upbuilding  of  flowers  and  trees,  of  insects, 
animals,  humans,  to  the  guidance  and  guardianship  of  those 
vaster  forms  of  heavenly  bodies,  the  stars,  the  planets  and 
the  mighty  suns,  whose  gigantic  "bodies,"  inhabited  by 
immenser  consciousness,  people  empty  space.  ...  A  noble, 
useful,  selfless  work,  God's  messengers.  .  .  . 


70  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

He  checked  himself  again,  as  the  rich,  ancient  notion 
flitted  across  his  stirring  memory. 

"Delightful,  picturesque  conceptions  of  the  planet's 
young,  fair  ignorance!"  he  reminded  himself,  smiling  as 
before. 

Whereupon  rose,  bursting  through  his  momentary  dream, 
with  full-fledged  power,  the  great  hope  of  his  own  reasoned, 
scientific  Dream — that  man  is  greater  than  he  knows,  and 
that  the  progress  of  the  Race  was  demonstrable. 

For,  to  the  subliminal  powers  of  an  awakened  Race  these 
Nature  Beings  with  their  special  faculties,  must  lie  open 
and  accessible.  The  human  and  the  non-human  could  unite ! 
Nature  must  come  back  into  the  hearts  of  men  and  win 
them  again  to  simple,  natural  life  with  love,  with  joy,  with 
naked  beauty.  Death  and  disease  must  vanish,  hope  and 
purity  return.  The  Race  must  develop,  grow,  become  in 
the  true  sense  universal.  It  could  know  God ! 

The  vision  flashed  upon  him  with  extraordinary  convic- 
tion, so  that  he  forgot  for  the  moment  how  securely  he 
belonged  to  the  unstable.  The  smile  of  happiness  spread, 
as  it  were,  over  his  entire  being.  He  glowed  and  pulsed 
with  its  delicious  inward  fire.  Light  filled  his  being  for 
an  instant — an  instant  of  intoxicating  belief  and  certainty 
and  vision.  The  instant  inspiration  of  a  dream  went  lost 
and  vanished.  He  had  drawn  upon  childhood  and  legendary 
reading  for  the  substance  of  a  moment's  happiness.  He 
shook  himself,  so  to  speak.  He  remembered  his  patients 
and  his  duties,  his  colleague  too.  .  .  . 

Nothing,  meanwhile,  occurred  to  arouse  interest  or  atten- 
tion. Le  Vallon  was  quite  docile,  ordinary;  he  needed  no 
watching;  he  slept  well,  ate  well,  spent  his  leisure  with  his 
books  and  in  the  garden.  He  complained  often  of  the  lack 
of  sunlight,  and  sometimes  he  might  be  seen  taking  some 
deep  breaths  of  air  into  his  lungs  by  the  open  window  or 
on  the  balcony.  The  phases  of  the  moon,  too,  interested 
him,  and  he  asked  once  when  the  full  moon  would  come 
and  then,  when  Devonham  told  him,  he  corrected  the  date 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  71 

the  latter  gave,  proving  him  two  hours  wrong.  But,  on  the 
whole,  there  seemed  little  to  differentiate  him  from  the 
usual  young  man  whose  physique  had  developed  in  advance 
of  his  mental  faculties;  his  knowledge  in  some  respects 
certainly  was  backward,  as  in  the  case  of  arrested  develop- 
ment. He  seemed  an  intelligent  countryman,  but  an 
unusually  intelligent  countryman,  though  all  the  time  an- 
other under-intelligence  shone  brightly,  betraying  itself  in 
remarks  and  judgments  oddly  phrased. 

Dr.  Fillery  took  him,  during  the  following  day  or  two, 
to  concerts,  theatres,  cinemas.  He  enjoyed  them  all.  Yet 
in  the  theatres  he  was  inclined  to  let  his  attention  wander. 
The  degree  of  alertness  varied  oddly.  His  critical  standard, 
moreover,  was  curiously  exacting;  he  demanded  the  real 
creative  interpretation  of  a  part,  and  was  quick  to  detect 
a  lack  of  inspiration,  of  fine  technique,  of  true  conception 
in  a  player.  Reasons  he  failed  to  give,  and  argument  seemed 
impossible  to  him,  but  if  voice  or  gesture  or  imaginative 
touch  failed  anywhere,  he  lost  interest  in  the  performer 
from  that  moment. 

"He  has  poor  breath,"  he  remarked.  "He  only  imitates. 
He  is  outside."  Or,  "She  pretends.  She  does  not  feel 
and  know.  Feeling — the  feeling  that  comes  of  fire — she 
has  not  felt." 

"She  does  not  understand  her  part,  you  mean?"  suggested 
Fillery. 

"She  does  not  burn  with  it,"  was  the  reply. 

At  concerts  he  behaved  individually  too.  They  bored  as 
well  as  puzzled  him;  the  music  hardly  stirred  Him.  He 
showed  signs  of  distress  at  anything  classical,  though 
Wagner,  Debussy,  the  Russians,  moved  him  and  produced 
excitement. 

"He,"  was  his  remark,  with  emphasis,  "has  heard.  He 
gives  me  freedom.  I  could  fly  and  go  away.  He  sets  me 
free  .  .  ."  and  then  he  would  say  no  more,  not  even  in 
reply  to  questions.  He  could  not  define  the  freedom  he 
referred  to,  nor  could  he  say  where  he  could  go  away  to. 


72 

But  his  face  lit  up,  he  smiled  his  delightful  smile,  he  looked 
happy.  "Stars,"  he  added  once  in  a  tone  of  interest,  in 
reply  to  repeated  questions,  "stars,  wind,  fire,  away  from 
this!" — he  tapped  his  head  and  breast — "I  feel  more  alive 
and  real." 

"It's  real  and  true,  that  music?    That's  what  you  feel?" 

"It's  beyond  this,"  he  replied,  again  tapping  his  body. 
"They  have  heard." 

The  cinema  interested  him  more.  Yets  its  limits  seemed 
to  perplex  him  more  than  its  wonder  thrilled  him.  He 
accepted  it  as  a  simple,  natural,  universal  thing. 

"They  stay  always  on  the  sheet,"  he  observed  with  evident 
surprise.  "And  I  hear  nothing.  They  do  not  even  sing. 
Sound  and  movement  go  together!" 

"The  speaking  will  come,"  explained  Fillery.  "Those  are 
pictures  merely." 

"I  understand.  Yet  sound  is  natural,  isn't  it?  They 
ought  to  be  heard." 

"Speech,"  agreed  his  companion,  "is  natural,  but  singing 
isn't." 

"Are  they  not  alive  enough  to  sing?"  was  the  reply, 
spoken  to  himself  rather  than  to  his  neighbour,  who  was 
so  attentive  to  his  least  response.  "Do  they  only  sing 
when" — Fillery  heard  it  and  felt  something  leap  within 
him — "when  they  are  paid  or  have  an  audience  ?"  he  finished 
the  sentence  quickly. 

"No  one  sings  naturally  of  their  own  accord — not  in 
cities,  at  any  rate,"  was  the  reply. 

LeVallon  laughed,  as  though  he  understood  at  once. 

"There  is  no  sun  and  wind,"  he  murmured.  "Of  course. 
They  cannot." 

It  was  the  cinemas  that  provided  most  material  for  obser- 
vation, Fillery  found.  There  was  in  a  cinema  performance 
something  that  excited  his  companion,  but  excited  Him  more 
than  the  doctor  felt  he  was  justified  in  encouraging. 
Obviously  the  other  side  of  him,  the  "N.  H."  aspect,  came 
up  to  breathe  under  the  stimulus  of  the  rapid,  wor!3-embrac- 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  73 

ing,  space-and-time  destroying  pictures  on  the  screen. 
Concerts  did  not  stimulate  him,  it  seemed,  but  rather  puzzled 
him.  He  remained  wholly  the  commonplace  LeVallon — 
with  one  exception:  he  drew  involved  patterns  on  the  edge 
of  his  programmes,  patterns  of  a  very  complicated  yet 
accurate  kind,  as  though  he  almost  saw  the  sounds  that 
poured  into  his  ears.  And  these  ornamented  programmes 
Dr.  Fillery  preserved.  Sound — music — seemed  to  belong 
to  his  interpretation  of  movement.  About  the  cinema,  how- 
ever, there  seemed  something  almost  familiar,  something 
he  already  knew  and  understood,  the  sound  belonging  to 
movement  only  lacking. 

Apart  from  these  small  incidents,  LeVallon  showed  noth- 
ing unusual,  nothing  that  a  yokel  untaught  yet  of  natural 
intelligence  might  not  have  shown.  His  language,  perhaps, 
was  singular,  but,  having  been  educated  by  one  mind  only, 
and  in  a  region  of  lonely  forests  and  mountains,  remote 
from  civilized  life,  there  was  nothing  inexplicable  in  the 
odd  words  he  chose,  nor  in  the  peculiar — if  subtle  and 
penetrating — phrases  that  he  used.  Invariably  he  recognized 
the  spontaneous,  creative  power  as  distinguished  from  the 
derivative  that  merely  imitated. 

He  found  ways  of  expressing  himself  almost  immediately, 
both  in  speech  and  writing,  however,  and  with  a  perfection 
far  beyond  the  reach  of  a  half-educated  country  lad;  and 
this  swift  aptitude  was  puzzling  until  its  explanation  sud- 
denly was  laid  bare.  He  absorbed,  his  companion  realized 
at  last,  as  by  telepathy,  the  content  of  his  own,  of  Fillery's 
mind,  acquiring  the  latter's  mood,  language,  ideas,  as  though 
the  two  formed  one  being. 

The  discovery  startled  the  doctor.  Yet  what  startled 
him  still  more  was  the  further  discovery,  made  a  little 
later,  that  he  himself  could,  on  occasions,  become  so  identi- 
fied with  his  patient  that  the  slightest  shade  of  thought 
or  feeling  rose  spontaneously  in  his  own  mind  too. 

He  remained,  otherwise,  almost  entirely  "LeVallon" ;  and, 
after  a  full  report  made  to  Devonham,  and  the  detailed 


74  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

discussion  thereon  that  followed,  Dr.  Fillery  had  no  evi- 
dence to  contradict  the  latter's  opinion:  "LeVallon  is  the 
real  true  self.  The  other  personality — 'N.  H.'  as  we  call  it 
— is  a  mere  digest  and  accumulation  of  material  supplied 
by  his  parents  and  by  Mason." 

"Let  us  wait  and  see  what  happens  when  'N.  H.'  appears 
and  does  something,"  Fillery  was  content  to  reply. 

"If,"  answered  Devonham,  with  sceptical  emphasis,  "it 
ever  does  appear." 

"You  think  it  won't?"  asked  Fillery. 

"With  proper  treatment,"  said  Devonham  decisively,  "I 
see  no  reason  why  'N.  H.'  should  not  become  happily 
merged  in  the  parent  self — in  LeVallon,  and  a  permanent 
cure  result." 

He  put  his  glasses  straight  and  stared  at  his  chief,  as 
much  as  to  say  "You  promised." 

"Perhaps,"  said  Fillery.  "But,  in  my  judgment,  'Le- 
Vallon' is  too  slight  to  count  at  all.  I  believe  the  whole, 
real,  parent  Self  is  'N.  H.,'  and  the  only  life  LeVallon  has 
at  all  is  that  which  peeps  up  through  him — from  'N.  H.' " 

Fillery  returned  his  serious  look. 

"If  'N.  H.'  is  the  real  self,  and  I  am  right,"  he  added 
slowly,  "you,  Paul,  will  have  to  revise  your  whole  position." 

"I  shall,"  returned  Devonham.  "But — you  will  allow 
this — it  is  a  lot  to  expect.  I  see  no  reason  to  believe  in 
anything  more  than  a  subconscious  mind  of  unusual  content, 
and  possibly  of  unusual  powers  and  extent,"  he  added  with 
reluctance. 

"It  is,"  said  Fillery  significantly,  "a  lot  to  expect — as  you 
said  just  now.  I  grant  you  that.  Yet  I  feel  it  possible 
that "  he  hesitated. 

Devonham  looked  uncomfortable.  He  fidgeted.  He  did 
not  like  the  pause.  A  sense  of  exasperation  rose  in  him, 
as  though  he  knew  something  of  what  was  coming. 

"Paul,"  went  on  his  chief  abruptly  in  a  tone  that  dropped 
instinctively  to  a  lower  key — almost  a  touch  of  awe  lay 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  75 

behind  it — "you  admit  no  deity,  I  know,  but  you  admit 
purpose,  design,  intelligence." 

"Well,"  replied  the  other  patiently,  long  experience  hav- 
ing taught  him  iron  restraint,  "it's  a  blundering,  imperfect 
system,  inadequately  organized — if  you  care  to  call  that 
intelligence.  It's  of  an  extremely  intricate  complexity.  I 
admit  that.  Deity  I  consider  an  unnecessary  assumption." 

"The  love  and  hate  of  atoms  alone  bowls  you  over," 
was  the  unexpected  comment.  "The  word  'Laws'  explains 
nothing.  A  machine  obeys  the  laws,  but  intelligence  con- 
ceived that  machine — and  a  man  repairs  and  keeps  it  going. 
Who — what — keeps  the  daisy  going,  the  crystal,  the  creative 
thought  in  the  imagination?  An  egg  becomes  a  leaf -eating 
caterpillar,  which  in  turn  becomes  a  honey-eating  butterfly 
with  wings.  A  yolk  turns  into  feathers.  Is  that  accom- 
plished without  intelligence?" 

"Ask  our  new  patient,"  interrupted  Devonham,  wiping 
his  glasses  with  unnecessary  thoroughness. 

"Which?" 

Devonham  startled,  looked  up  without  his  glasses.  It 
seemed  the  question  made  him  uneasy.  Putting  the  glasses 
on  suddenly,  he  stared  at  his  chief. 

"I  see  what  you  mean,  Edward,"  he  said  earnestly,  his 
interest  deeply  captured.  "Be  careful.  We  know  nothing, 
remember,  nothing  of  life.  Don't  jump  ahead  like  this 
or  take  your  dreams  for  reality.  We  have  our  duty — in 
a  case  like  this." 

Fillery  smiled,  as  though  to  convey  that  he  remembered 
his  promise. 

"Humanity,"  he  replied,  "is  a  very  small  section  of  the 
universe.  Compared  to  the  minuter  forms  of  life,  which 
may  be  quite  as  important,  if  not  more  so,  the  human 
section  is  even  negligible ;  while,  compared  to  the  possibility 

of  greater  forms "  He  broke  off  abruptly.  "As  you 

say,  Paul,  we  know  nothing  of  life  after  all,  do  we?  Noth- 
ing, less  than  nothing!  We  observe  and  classify  a  few 


76  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

results,  that's  all.  We  must  beware  of  narrow  prejudice, 
at  any  rate — you  and  I." 

His  eyes  lost  their  light,  his  speech  dried  up,  his  ideas, 
dreams,  speculations  returned  to  him  unrewardedz  unex- 
pressed. With  natures  in  whom  the  subconscious  never 
stirred,  natures  through  whom  its  magical  fires  cast  no 
faintest  upward  gleam,  intercourse  was  ever  sterile,  unpro- 
ductive. Such  natures  had  no  background.  Even  a  fact, 
with  them,  was  detached  from  its  true  big  life,  its  full 
significance,  its  divine  potentialities !  .  .  . 

"We  must  beware  of  prejudice,"  he  repeated  quietly. 
"We  seek  truth  only." 

"We  must  beware,"  replied  Devonham,  as  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  "of  suggestion — of  auto-suggestion  above  all. 
We  must  remember  how  repressed  desires  dramatize  them- 
selves— especially,"  he  added  significantly,  "when  aided  by 
imagination.  We  seek  only  facts."  On  his  face  appeared 
swiftly,  before  it  vanished  again,  an  expression  of  keen 
anxiety,  almost  of  affliction,  yet  tempered,  as  it  were,  by 
surprise  and  wonder,  by  pity  possibly,  and  certainly  by 
affection. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

TO  Devonham,  meanwhile,  LeVallon's  behaviour  was 
polite  and  kind  and  distant ;  he  did  not  show  distrust 
of  any  sort,  but  he  betrayed  a  certain  diffidence,  reserve 
and  caution.  Trust  he  felt ;  sympathy  he  did  not  feel.  To 
the  amusement  of  Fillery,  he  suggested  almost  a  kind  of 
mild  contempt  when  dealing  with  him,  and  this  amusement 
was  increased  by  the  fact  that  it  obviously  annoyed  Devon- 
ham,  while  it  gratified  his  chief.  For  towards  Fillery, 
LeVallon  behaved  with  an  intimate  and  understanding 
sympathy  that  proved  his  instantaneous  affection  based  upon 
mutual  comprehension.  It  seemed  that  LeVallon  and  Fillery 
had  known  one  another  always. 

It  was  doubtless,  due  to  this  innate  sympathy  between 
them  that  Edward  FHlery's  rare  gift  of  absorbing  the  con- 
tent of  another's  mind,  even  to  the  point  of  taking  on 
that  other's  conditions,  physical  and  emotional  at  the 
same  time,  was  so  successful.  By  means  of  a  highly 
developed  power  of  auto-suggestion,  he  had  learned  so  to 
identify  his  own  mind,  thought,  feeling  with  those  of  a 
patient,  that  there  resulted  a  kind  of  merging  by  which 
he  literally  became  that  patient.  He  felt  with  him.  As  a 
subject  sees  the  pictures  in  the  hypnotiser's  mind,  perceives 
his  thoughts,  divines  his  slightest  will,  so  Fillery,  reversing 
the  process,  could  realize  for  the  moment  exactly  what  his 
patient  was  thinking,  feeling,  desiring.  It  was  of  great 
use  to  him  in  his  strange  practice. 

This  gift,  naturally,  varied  in  degree,  and  was  not  in- 
variably successful.  In  some  cases  he  only  felt,  the  emotion 
alone  being  thus  transferred;  in  others  he  only  saw  what 
the  patient  saw,  or  thought  he  saw,  the  accompanying 

77 


78  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

emotion  being  omitted ;  in  others  again,  as  in  cases  of  vision 
at  a  distance,  either  of  time  or  space,  he  had  been  able  to 
follow  the  "travelling  sight"  of  his  patient,  whose  con- 
sciousness in  trance  was  operating  far  away,  and  thus  to 
check  for  subsequent  verification  exactly  what  that  patient 
saw.  He  had  shared  strange  experiences  with  others — 
with  a  man,  for  instance,  in  whom  sight  was  transferred 
to  the  tip  of  his  index  finger,  so  that  he  could  read  a  book 
by  passing  that  finger  along  the  printed  line ;  with  a  woman, 
again,  in  whom  "exteriorized  consciousness"  manifested  it- 
self, so  that,  if  the  air  several  inches  from  her  face  was 
pinched  or  struck,  the  impact  was  received  and  an  actual 
bruise  produced  upon  her  skin. 

This  extension  of  consciousness,  its  seeds  already  in  his 
nature,  he  had  trained  and  developed  to  a  point  where  he 
could  almost  rely  upon  auto-suggestion  bringing  about 
quickly  the  desired  conditions.  Its  success,  however,  as 
mentioned,  was  variable.  With  "N.  H.,"  especially  now, 
this  variableness  was  marked;  sometimes  it  was  so  easily 
accomplished  as  to  seem  natural  and  without  a  conscious 
effort,  while  at  other  times  it  failed  completely.  Since  it 
was  in  no  sense  an  attempt  to  transfer  anything  from  his 
own  mind  to  that  of  the  patient,  Fillery  felt  that  his  promise 
to  his  colleague  was  not  involved. 

The  following  scene  describes  the  first  time  in  which  the 
process  took  place  with  his  new  patient.  Fillery  himself 
wrote  down  the  words,  supplied  the  detailed  description, 
filled  in  the  emotion  and  psychology,  but  exactly  as  these 
occurred  and  as  he  felt  them,  both  when  these  took  place, 
respectively,  in  his  own  consciousness  and  in  that  of  his 
patient.  Part  of  the  time  he  was  present,  part  of  it  he 
was  not  visibly  so,  being  screened  from  observation,  yet 
so  placed  that  he  could  note  everything  that  happened.  It 
is  clear,  however,  that  his  mind  was  so  intimately  en  rapport 
with  the  thoughts  and  feelings  of  "N.  H.,"  that  he  ex- 
perienced in  his  own  being  all  that  "N.  H."  experienced. 
The  description  was  written  immediately  after  the  occur- 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  79 

rence,  though  some  of  it,  the  spoken  language  in  particular, 
was  jotted  down  in  his  hiding  place  at  the  actual  moment. 

The  interlacing  of  the  two  minds,  their  interpenetration, 
as  it  were,  one  occasionally  dominating  the  other,  is  curious 
to  trace  and  far  from  difficult  to  disentangle.  Similarly 
the  interweaving  of  LeVallon  and  "N.  H."  is  noticeable. 
The  description  given  by  Devonham  of  the  portion  of  the 
occurrence  he  witnessed  personally,  or  heard  about  from 
Nurse  Robbins  and  the  attendants — this  description  reduces 
the  whole  thing  to  the  commonplace  level  of  "a  slight 
seizure  accompanied  by  signs  of  violence  and  moments  of 
delirium  due  to  excitement  and  fatigue,  and  soon  cured 
by  sleep." 

The  occurrence  took  place  precisely  at  the  period  when 
the  moon  was  at  the  full. 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE  body  I'm  in  and  using  is  22,  as  they  call  it,  and 
from  a  man  named  Mason,  a  geologist,  I  receive  sums 
of  money,  regularly  paid,  with  which  I  live.  They  call  it 
"live."  A  roof  and  walls  protect  me,  who  do  not  need 
protection;  my  body,  which  it  irks,  is  covered  with  wool 
and  cloth  and  stuff,  fitting  me  as  bark  fits  a  tree  and  yet 
not  part  of  me ;  my  feet,  which  love  the  touch  of  earth  and 
yearn  for  it,  are  cased  in  dead  dried  skin  called  leather; 
even  my  head  and  hair,  which  crave  the  sun  and  wind, 
are  covered  with  another  piece  of  dead  dried  skin,  shaped 
like  a  shell,  but  an  ugly  shell,  in  which,  were  it  shaped 
otherwise,  the  wind  and  rustling  leaves  might  sing  with 
flowers. 

Before  22  I  remember  nothing — nothing  definite,  that  is. 
I  opened  my  eyes  in  a  soft,  but  not  refreshing  case  standing 
on  four  iron  legs,  and  well  off  the  ground,  and  covered  with 
coarse  white  coverings  piled  thickly  on  my  body.  It  was  a 
bed.  Slabs  of  transparent  stuff  kept  out  the  living  sunshine 
for  which  I  hungered ;  thick  solid  walls  shut  off  the  wind ; 
no  stars  or  moon  showed  overhead,  because  an  enormous  lid 
hid  every  bit  of  sky.  No  dew,  therefore,  lay  upon  the 
sheets.  I  smelt  no  earth,  no  leaves,  no  flowers.  No  single 
natural  sound  entered  except  the  chattering  of  dirty 
sparrows  which  had  lost  its  freshness.  I  was  in  a  hospital. 

One  comely  figure  alone  gave  me  a  little  joy.  It  was 
soft  and  slim  and  graceful,  with  a  smell  of  fern  and  morn- 
ing in  its  hair,  though  that  hair  was  lustreless  and  balled 
up  in  ugly  lumps,  with  strips  of  thin  metal  in  it.  They 
called  it  nurse  and  sister.  It  was  the  first  moving  thing  I 
saw  when  my  eyes  opened  on  my  limited  and  enclosed 
surroundings.  My  heart  beat  quicker,  a  flash  of  thin  joy 

80 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  81 

came  up  in  me.  I  had  seen  something  similar  before  some- 
where ;  it  reminded  me,  I  mean,  of  something  I  had  known 
elsewhere;  though  but  a  shabby,  lifeless,  clumsy  copy  of 
this  other  glorious  thing.  Though  not  real,  it  stirred  this 
faint  memory  of  reality,  so  that  I  caught  at  the  skirts  of 
moonlight,  stars  and  flowers  reflected  in  a  forest  pool  where 
my  companion  played  for  long  periods  of  happiness  be- 
tween our  work.  The  perfume  and  the  eyes  did  that.  I 
watched  it  for  a  bit,  as  it  moved  away,  came  close  and 
looked  at  me.  When  the  eyes  met  mine,  a  wave  of  life, 
but  of  little  life,  surged  faintly  through  me. 

They  were  dim  and  pitiful,  these  eyes;  mournful,  unlit, 
unseeing.  The  stars  had  set  in  them ;  dull  shadows  crowded. 
They  were  so  small.  They  were  hungry  too.  They  were 
unsatisfied.  For  some  minutes  it  puzzled  me,  then  I  under- 
stood. That  was  the  word — unsatisfied.  Ah,  but  I  could 
alter  that !  I  could  comfort,  help,  at  any  rate*  My  strength, 
though  horribly  clipped  and  blocked,  could  manage  a  little 
thing  like  that !  My  smaller  rhythms  I  could  put  into  it. 

The  eyes,  the  smile,  the  whole  soft  comely  bundle,  so 
pitifully  hungry  and  unsatisfied,  I  rose  and  seized,  pressing 
it  close  inside  my  own  great  arms,  and  burying  it  all  against 
my  breast.  I  crushed  it,  but  very  gently,  as  I  might  crush 
a  sapling.  My  lips  were  amid  the  ferny  hair.  I  breathed 
upon  it  willingly,  glad  to  help. 

It  was  a  poor  unfinished  thing,  I  felt  at  once,  soft  and 
yielding  where  it  should  have  been  resilient  and  elastic  as 
fresh  turf;  the  perfume  had  no  body,  it  faded  instantly; 
there  was  so  little  life  in  it. 

But,  as  I  held  it  in  my  big  embrace,  smothering  its 
hunger  as  best  I  could  within  my  wave  of  being,  this  bundle, 
this  poor  pitiful  bundle,  screamed  and  struggled  to  get  free. 
It  bit  and  scratched  and  uttered  sounds  like  those  squeaks 
the  less  swift  creatures  make  when  the  swifter  overtake 
them. 

I  was  too  surprised  to  keep  it  to  me ;  I  relaxed  my  hold. 
The  instant  I  did  so  the  figure,  thus  released,  stood  upright 


82  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

like  a  young  birch  the  wind  sets  free.  The  figure  looked 
alive.  The  hair  fell  loose,  untidily,  the  puny  face  wore 
colour,  the  eyes  had  fire  in  them.  I  saw  that  fire.  It  was 
a  message.  Memory  stirred  faintly  in  me. 

"Ah !"     I  cried.     "I've  helped  you  anyhow  a  little !" 

The  scene  that  followed  filled  me  with  such  trouble  and 
bewilderment  that  I  cannot  recall  exactly  what  occurred. 
The  figure  seemed  to  spit  at  me,  yet  not  with  grace  and 
invitation.  There  was  no  sign  of  gratitude.  I  was  entirely 
misunderstood,  it  seemed.  Bells  rang,  as  the  figure  rushed 
to  the  door  and  flung  it  open.  It  called  aloud ;  similar, 
though  quite  lifeless  figures  came  in  answer  and  filled  the 
room.  A  doctor — Devonham,  they  called  him — followed 
them.  I  was  most  carefully  examined  in  a  dozen  curious 
ways  that  tickled  my  skin  a  little  so  that  I  smiled.  But  I 
lay  quite  still  and  silent,  watching  the  whole  performance 
with  a  confusion  in  my  being  that  baffled  my  comprehend- 
ing what  was  going  on.  Most  of  the  figures  were  frightened. 

Then  the  doctor  gave  place  to  Fillery,  whose  name  has 
rhythm. 

To  him  I  spoke  at  once: 

"I  wished  to  comfort  and  revive  her,"  I  told  him.  "She 
is  so  starved.  I  was  most  gentle.  She  brings  a  message 
only." 

He  made  no  reply,  but  gazed  at  me  with  the  corners  of 
his  mouth  both  twitching,  and  in  his  eyes — ah,  his  eyes  had 
more  of  the  sun  in  them — a  flash  of  something  that  had 
known  fire,  at  least,  if  it  had  not  kept  it. 

"My  God!  I  worship  thee,"  I  murmured  at  the  glimpse 
of  the  Power  I  must  own  as  Master  and  creator  of  my 
being.  "Even  when  thou  art  playful,  I  adore  thee  and 
obey." 

Then  four  other  figures,  shaped  like  the  doctor  but  wholly 
mechanical,  a  mere  blind  weight  operating  through  them, 
held  my  arms  and  legs.  Not  the  least  desire  to  move  was 
in  me  luckily.  I  say  "luckily,"  because,  had  I  wished  it, 
I  could  have  flung  them  through  the  roof,  blown  down  the 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  83 

little  walls,  caught  up  a  dozen  figures  in  my  arms,  and 
rushed  forth  with  them  towards  the  Powers  of  Fire  and 
Wind  to  which  I  belonged. 

Could  I  ?  I  felt  that  I  could.  The  sight  of  the  true  fire, 
small  though  it  was,  in  the  comely  figure's  and  the  doctor's 
eyes,  had  set  me  in  touch  again  with  my  home  and  origin. 
This  touch  I  had  somehow  lost;  I  had  been  "ill,"  with 
what  they  called  nervous  disorder  and  injured  reason.  The 
lost  touch  was  now  restored.  But,  luckily,  as  I  said,  there 
was  no  desire  in  me  to  set  free  these  other  figures,  to  help 
them  in  any  way,  after  the  reception  my  first  kindly  effort 
had  experienced.  I  lay  quite  still,  held  by  these  four 
grotesque  and  puny  mechanisms.  The  comely  one,  with  the 
others  similar  to  her,  had  withdrawn.  I  felt  very  kindly 
towards  them  all,  but  especially  towards  the  doctor,  Fillery, 
who  had  shown  that  he  knew  my  deity  and  origin.  None  of 
them  were  worth  much  trouble,  anyhow.  I  felt  that  too.  A 
mild,  sweet-toned  contempt  was  in  me. 

"Dangerous,"  was  a  word  I  caught  them  whispering  as 
they  went.  I  laughed  a  little.  The  four  faces  over  me  made 
odd  grimaces,  tightening  their  lips,  and  gripping  my  legs 
and  arms  with  greater  effort.  The  doctor — Fillery — 
noticed  it. 

"Easy,  remember,"  he  addressed  the  four.  "There's 
really  no  need  to  hold.  It  won't  recur."  I  nodded.  We 
understood  one  another.  And,  with  a  smile  at  me,  he  left 
the  room,  saying  he  would  come  back  after  a  short  interval. 
A  link  with  my  source,  a  brother  as  it  were,  went  with  him. 
I  was  lonely.  .,  .  . 

I  began  to  hum  songs  to  myself,  little  fragments  of  a 
great  natural  music  I  had  once  known  but  lost,  and  I 
noticed  that  the  four  figures,  as  I  sang,  relaxed  their  grip 
of  my  limbs  considerably.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  forgot 
that  they  were  holding  me ;  their  grip,  anyhow,  was  but 
a  thread  I  could  snap  without  the  smallest  effort.  The 
songs  were  happiness  in  me.  Upon  free  leaping  rhythms 
I  careered  with  an  exhilarating  rush  of  liberty;  all  about 


84  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

space  I  soared  and  sank;  I  was  picked  up,  flung  far, 
riding  the  crest  of  immense  waves  of  orderly  vibration 
that  delighted  me.  I  let  myself  go  a  bit,  let  my  voice 
out,  I  mean.  No  effort  accompanied  my  singing.  It  was 
automatic,  like  breathing  almost.  It  was  natural  to  me. 
These  rhythmical  sounds  and  the  patterns  that  they 
wove  in  space  were  the  outlines  of  forms  it  was  my  work 
to  build.  This  expressed  my  nature.  Only  my  power 
was  blocked  and  stifled  in  this  confining  body.  The  fire 
and  air  which  were  my  tools  I  could  not  control.  I  have 
forgotten — forgotten ! 

"Got  a  voice,  ain't  he?"  observed  one  of  the  figures 
admiringly. 

"Lunies  can  do  'most  anything  they  have  a  mind  to." 

"Grand  Opera  isn't  it." 

"Yes,"  mentioned  the  fourth,  "but  he'll  lift  the  roof 
off  presently.  We'd  better  stop  him  before  there's  any 
trouble." 

I  stopped  of  myself,  however :  their  remarks  interested 
me.  Also  while  I  had  been  singing,  although  I  called  it 
humming  only,  they  had  gradually  let  go  of  me,  and  were 
now  sitting  down  on  my  bed  and  staring  with  quite 
pleasant  faces.  All  their  dim  eight  eyes  were  fixed  on 
me.  Their  forms  were  not  built  well. 

"Where  did  you  get  that  from,  Guv'nor?"  asked  the 
one  who  had  spoken  first.  "Can  you  give  me  the  name 
of  it?" 

The  sound  of  his  own  voice  was  like  the  scratching 
of  a  pin  after  the  enormous  rhythm  that  now  ceased. 

"Ain't  printed,   is   it?"  he  went   on,   as   I   stared,  not 
understanding  what  he  meant.    "I've  got  a  sister  at  the- 
Halls,"  he  explained.    "She'd  make  a  hit  with  that  kind 
of  thing.     Gave  me  quite  a  twist  inside  to  hear  it,"  he 
added,  turning  to  the  others. 

The  others  agreed  solemnly  with  dull  stupid  faces.  I 
lay  and  listened  to  their  talk.  I  longed  to  help  them. 
I  had  forgotten  how. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  85 

"A  bit  churchy,  I  thought  it,"  said  one.  "But,  I  con- 
fess, it  stirred  me  up." 

"Churchy  or  not,  it's  the  stuff,"  insisted  the  first. 

"Oh,  it's  the  stuff  to  give  'em,  right  enough."  And  they 
looked  at  me  admiringly  again.  "Where  did  you  get  it,  if 
I  may  ask  ?"  replied  Number  One  in  a  more  respectful  tone. 
,His  face  looked  quite  polite.  The  lips  stretched,  showing 
yellow  teeth.  It  was  his  smile.  But  his  eyes  were  a  little 
more  real.  Oh;  where  was  my  fire  ?  I  could  have  built  the 
outline  better  so  that  he  was  real  and  might  express  far 
more.  I  have  forgotten ! 

"I  hear  it,"  I  told  him,  "because  I'm  in  it.  It's  all  about 
me.  It  never  stops.  It's  what  we  build  with " 

Number  One  seemed  greatly  interested. 

"Hear  it,  do  you?  Why,  that's  odd  now.  You  see" — 
he  looked  at  his  companions  apologetically,  as  though  he 
knew  they  would  not  believe  him — "my  father  was  like  that. 
He  heard  his  music,  he  always  used  to  say,  but  we  laughed 
at  him.  He  was  a  composer  by  trade.  Oh,  his  stuff  was 
printed  too.  Of  course,"  he  added,  "there's  musical  talent 
in  the  family,"  as  though  that  explained  everything.  He 
turned  to  me  again.  "Give  us  a  little  more,  Mister — if  you 
don't  object,  that  is,"  he  added.  And  his  face  was  soft  as 
he  said  it.  "Only  gentle  like — if  you  don't  mind." 

"Yes,  keep  it  down  a  bit,"  another  put  in,  looking 
anxiously  in  the  direction  of  the  closed  door.  He  patted 
the  air  with  his  open  palm,  slowly,  carefully,  as  though  he 
patted  an  animal  that  might  rise  and  fly  at  him. 

I  hummed  again  for  them,  but  this  time  with  my  lips 
closed.  The  waves  of  rhythm  caught  me  up  and  away.  I 
soared  and  flew  and  dropped  and  rose  again  upon  their 
huge  coloured  crests.  Curtains  and  sheets  of  quiet  flame  in 
palest  gold  flared  shimmering  through  the  sound,  while 
winds  that  were  full  of  hurricanes  and  cyclones  swept  down 
to  lift  the  fire  and  dance  with  it  in  spirals.  The  perfume  of 
great  flowers  rose.  There  were  flowers  everywhere,  and 
stars  shone  through  it  all  like  showers  of  gold.  Ah !  I  began 


86  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

to  remember  something.  It  was  flowers  and  stars  as  well 
as  human  forms  we  worked  to  build.  .  .,  . 

But  I  kept  the  fire  from  leaping  into  actual  flame;  the 
mighty  winds  I  held  back.  Even  thus  pent  and  checked, 
their  powerful  volume  made  the  atmosphere  shake  and  pulse 
about  us.  Only  I  could  not  control  them  now.  .  .  .  With 
an  effort  I  came  back,  came  down,  as  it  were,  and  saw  the 
funny  little  faces  staring  at  me  with  opened  eyes  and 
mouths,  and  yellow  teeth,  pale  gums,  their  skins  gone 
whitish,  their  figures  rigid  with  their  tense  emotion.  They 
were  so  poorly  made,  the  patterns  so  imperfect.  The  new 
respect  in  their  manner  was  marked  plainly.  Suddenly  all 
four  turned  together  towards  the  door.  I  stopped.  The 
doctor  had  returned.  But  it  was  Fillery  again.  I  liked 
the  feel  of  him. 

"He  wanted  to  sing,  sir,  so  we  let  him.  It  seemed  to 
relieve  him  a  bit,"  they  explained  quickly  and  with  an  air 
of  helpless  apology. 

"Good,  good,"  said  the  doctor.  "Quite  good.  Any 
normal  expression  that  brings  relief  is  good."  He  dismissed 
them.  They  went  out,  casting  back  at  me  expressions  of 
puzzled  thanks  and  interest.  The  door  closed  behind  them. 
The  doctor  seated  himself  beside  me  and  took  my  hand.  I 
liked  his  touch.  His  hand  was  alive,  at  any  rate,  although 
within  my  own  it  felt  rather  like  a  dying  branch  or  bunch 
of  leaves  I  grasped.  The  life,  if  thin,  was  real. 

"Where's  the  rest  of  it?"  I  asked  him,  meaning  the 
music.  "I  used  to  have  it  all.  It's  left  me,  gone  away. 
What's  cut  it  off?" 

"You're  not  cut  off  really,"  he  said  gently.  "You  can 
always  get  into  it  again  when  you  really  need  it."  He  gazed 
at  me  steadily  for  a  minute,  then  said  in  his  quiet  voice — 
a  full,  nice  tone  with  wind  through  a  forest  running  in  it : 
"Mason.  ...  Dr.  Mason.  .  „  ." 

He  said  no  more,  but  watched  me.  The  name  stirred 
something  in  me  I  could  not  get  at  quite.  I  could  not  reach 
down  to  it.  I  was  troubled  by  a  memory  I  could  not  seize. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  87 

"Mason,"  I  repeated,  returning  his  strong  gaze.  "What 
—who — was  Mason?  And  where?"  I  connected  the  name 
with  a  sense  of  liberty,  also  with  great  winds  and  pools  of 
fire,  with  great  figures  of  golden  skin  and  radiant  faces,  with 
music,  too,  the  music  that  had  left  me. 

"You've  forgotten  for  the  moment,"  came  the  deep  run- 
ning voice  I  liked.  "He  looked  after  you  for  twenty  years. 
He  gave  his  life  for  you.  He  loved  you.  He  loved  your 
mother.  Your  father  was  his  friend." 

"Has  he  gone — gone  back  ?" 

"He's  dead." 

"I  can  get  after  him  though,"  I  said,  for  the  name  touched 
me  with  a  sense  of  lost  companionship  I  wanted,  though 
the  reference  to  my  father  and  mother  left  me  cold.  "I 
can  easily  catch  him  up.  When  I  move  with  my  wind  and 
fire,  the  fastest  things  stand  still."  My  own  speed,  once 
I  was  free  again,  I  knew  outpaced  easily  the  swiftest  bird, 
outpaced  light  itself." 

"Yes,"  agreed  the  doctor;  "only  he  doesn't  want  that 
now.  You  can  always  catch  him  up  when  the  time  comes. 
Besides,  he's  waiting  for  you  anyhow." 

I  knew  that  was  true.  I  sank  back  comforted  upon  the 
stuffy  pillows  and  lay  silent.  This  tinkling  chatter  wearied 
me.  It  was  like  trickling  wind.  I  wanted  the  flood  of 
hurricanes,  the  pulse  of  storms.  My  building,  shaping 
powers,  my  great  companions — oh!  where  were  they? 

"He  taught  you  himself,  taught  you  all  you  know,"  I 
heard  the  tinkling  go  on  again,  "but  he  kept  you  away 
from  life,  thinking  it  was  best.  He  was  afraid  for  you, 
afraid  for  others  too.  He  kept  you  in  the  woods  and  moun- 
tains where,  as  he  believed,  you  could  alone  express  yourself 
and  so  be  happy.  A  hundred  times,  in  babyhood  and  early 
childhood,  you  nearly  died.  He  nursed  you  back  to  life. 
His  own  life  he  renounced.  Now  he  is  dead.  He  has  left 
you  all  his  money." 

He  paused.  I  said  no  word.  Faint  memories  passed 
through  my  mind,  but  nothing  I  could  hold  and  seize.  The 


88  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

money  I  did  not  understand  at  all,  except  that  it  was  neces- 
sary. 

"He  thought  at  first  that  you  could  not  possibly  live  to 
manhood.  To  his  surprise  you  survived  everything — ill- 
ness, accident,  disaster  of  every  sort  and  kind.  Then,  as 
you  grew  up,  he  realized  his  mistake.  Instead  of  keeping 
you  away  from  life,  he  ought  to  have  introduced  you  to  it 
and  explained  it — as  I  and  Devonham  are  now  trying  to 
do.  You  could  not  live  for  ever  alone  in  woods  and 
mountains;  when  he  was  gone  there  would  be  no  one  to 
look  after  you  and  guide  you." 

The  trickling  of  wind  went  on  and  on.  I  hardly  listened 
to  it.  He  did  it  for  his  own  pleasure,  I  suppose.  It  pleased 
and  soothed  him  possibly.  Yet  I  remembered  every  syllable. 
It  was  a  small  detail  to  keep  fresh  when  my  real  memory 
covered  the  whole  planet. 

"Before  he  died,  he  recognized  his  mistake  and  faced  the 
position  boldly.  It  was  some  years  before  the  end ;  he  was 
hale  and  hearty  still,  yet  the  end,  he  knew,  was  in  sight. 
While  the  power  was  still  strong  in  him,  therefore,  he  did 
the  only  thing  left  to  him  to  do.  He  used  his  great  powers. 
He  used  suggestion.  He  hypnotized  you,  telling  you  to  for~ 
get — from  the  moment  of  his  death,  but  not  before — forget 
everything It  was  only  partially  successful." 

The  door  opened,  the  comely  figure  glanced  in,  then 
vanished. 

"She  wants  more  help  from  me,"  I  interrupted  the 
monotonous  tinkling  instantly,  for  pity  stirred  in  me  again 
as  I  saw  her  eager,  hungry  and  unsatisfied  little  eyes.  "Call 
her  back.  I  feel  quite  willing.  It  is  one  of  the  lower 
forms  we  made.  I  can  improve  it." 

Dr.  Fillery,  as  he  was  called,  looked  at  me  steadily,  his 
mouth  twitching  at  the  corners  as  before,  a  flash  of  fire 
flitting  through  his  eyes.  The  fire  made  me  like  and  trust 
him;  the  twitching,  too,  I  liked,  for  it  meant  he  knew  how 
absurd  he  was.  Yet  he  was  bigger  than  the  other  figures. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  89 

"You  can't  do  that,"  he  said,  "you  mustn't,"  and  then 
laughed  outright.  "It  isn't  done,  you  know — here." 

"Why  not,  sir?"  I  asked,  using  the  terms  the  figures 
used.  "I  feel  like  that." 

"Of  course,  you  do.  But  all  you  feel  can't  be  expressed 
except  at  the  proper  times  and  places.  The  consent  of  the 
other  party  always  is  involved,"  he  went  on  slowly,  "when 
it's  a  question  of  expressing — anything  you  feel." 

This  puzzled  me,  because  in  this  particular  instance  the 
other  party  had  asked  me  with  her  eyes  to  comfort  her.  I 
told  him  this.  He  laughed  still  more.  Caught  by  the  sound 
— it  was  just  like  wind  passing  among  tall  grasses  on  a 
mountain  ridge — I  forgot  what  he  was  talking  about  for  the 
moment.  The  sound  carried  me  away  towards  my  own 
rhythms. 

"You've  got  such  amazing  insight,"  he  went  on  tinkling 
to  himself,  for  I  heard,  although  I  did  not  listen.  "You 
read  the  heart  too  easily,  too  quickly.  You  must  learn  to 
hide  your  knowledge."  The  laughter  which  ran  with  the 
words  then  ended,  and  I  came  back  to  the  last  thing  I  had 
definitely  listened  to — "express,  expressing,"  was  the  phrase 
he  used. 

"You  told  me  that  self-expression  is  the  purpose  "for 
which  I'm  here ?" 

"I  believe  it  is,"  he  agreed,  more  solemnly. 

"Only  sometimes,  then  ?" 

"Exactly.  If  that  expression  involves  another  in  pain 
or  trouble  or  discomfort " 

"Ah !  I  have  to  choose,  you  mean.  I  have  to  know  first 
what  the  other  feels  about  it." 

I  began  to  understand  better.  It  was  a  game.  And  all 
games  delighted  me. 

"You  may  put  it  roughly  so,  yes,"  he  explained,  "you're 
very  quick.  I'll  give  you  a  rule  to  guide  you,"  he  went 
on.  I  listened  with  an  effort;  this  tinkling  soon  wearied 
me;  I  could  not  think  long  or  much;  my  way,  it  seemed, 


90  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

was  feeling.  "Ask  yourself  always  how  what  you  do  will 
affect  another,"  Dr.  Fillery  concluded.  "That's  a  safe  rule 
for  you." 

"That  is  of  children,"  I  observed.  We  stared  at  each 
other  a  moment.  "Both  sides  keep  it?"  I  asked. 

"Childish,"  he  agreed,  "it  certainly  is.  Both  sides,  yes, 
keep  it." 

I  sighed,  and  the  sigh  seemed  to  rise  from  my  very  feet, 
passing  through  my  whole  being.  He  looked  at  me  most 
kindly  then,  asking  why  I  sighed. 

"I  used  to  be  free,"  I  told  him.  "This  is  not  liberty. 
And  why  are  we  not  all  free  together  ?" 

"It  is  liberty  for  two  instead  of  only  for  one,"  he  said, 
"and  so,  in  the  long  run,  liberty  for  all." 

"So  that's  where  they  are,"  I  remarked,  but  to  myself  and 
not  to  him.  "Not  further  than  that."  For  what  I  had  once 
known,  but  now,  it  seemed,  forgotten,  was  far  beyond  such 
a  foolish  little  game.  We  had  lived  without  such  tiny 
tricks.  We  lived  openly  and  unafraid.  We  worked  in 
harmony.  We  lived.  Yes — but  who  was  "we"  ?  That  was 
the  part  I  had  forgotten. 

"It's  the  growth  and  development  of  civilization,"  I  heard 
the  little  drift  of  wind  go  whistling  thinly,  "and  it  won't 
take  you  long  to  become  quite  civilized  at  this  rate,  more 
civilized,  indeed,  than  most — with  your  swift  intelligence 
and  lightning  insight." 

"Civilization,"  I  repeated  to  myself.  Then  I  looked  at 
his  eyes  which  hid  carefully  in  their  depths  somewhere  that 
tiny  cherished  flame  I  loved.  "Your  ways  are  really  very 
simple,"  I  said.  "It's  all  easy  enough  to  learn.  It  is  so 
small." 

"A  man  studying  ants,"  he  tinkled,  "finds  them  small, 
but  far  from  simple.  You  may  find  complications  later.  If 
so,  come  to  me." 

I  promised  him,  and  the  fire  gleamed  faintly  in  his  eyes 
a  moment.  "He  entrusted  you  to  me.  Your  mother,"  he 
added  softly,  "was  the  woman  he  loved." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  91 

"Civilization,"  I  repeated,  for  the  word  set  going  an  odd 
new  rhythm  in  me  that  I  rather  liked,  and  that  tired  me  less 
than  the  other  things  he  said.  "What  is  it  then?  You  are 
a  Race,  you  told  me." 

"A  Race  of  human  beings,  of  men  and  women  "develop- 
ing " 

"The  comely  ones  ?" 

"Are  the  women.    Together  we  make  up  the  Race." 

"And  civilization?" 

"Is  realizing  that  we  are  a  community,  learning,  growing, 
all  its  members  living  for  the  others  as  well  as  for  them- 
selves." 

Dr.  Fillery  told  me  then  about  men  and  women  and  sex, 
how  children  are  made,  and  what  enormous  and  endless 
work  was  necessary  merely  to  keep  them  all  alive  and 
clothed  and  sheltered  before  they  could  accomplish  anything 
else  of  any  sort  at  all.  Half  the  labour  of  the  majority  was 
simply  to  keep  alive  at  all.  It  was  an  ugly  little  system 
he  described.  Much  I  did  not  hear,  because  my  thinking 
powers  gave  out.  Some  of  it  gave  me  an  awful  feeling  he 
called  pain.  The  confusion  and  imperfection  seemed  beyond 
repair,  even  beyond  the  worth  of  being  part  of  it,  of  belong- 
ing to  it  at  all.  Moreover,  the  making  of  children,  without 
which  the  whole  thing  must  end,  gave  me  spasms  of  irrita- 
tion he  called  laughter.  Only  the  Comely  Ones,  and  what 
he  told  me  of  them,  made  me  want  to  sing. 

"The  men,"  I  said,  "but  do  they  see  that  it  is  ugly  and 
ludicrous  and " 

"Comic,"  he  helped  me. 

"Do  they  know,"  I  asked,  taking  his  unknown  words, 
"that  it's  comic?" 

"The  glamour,"  he  said,  "conceals  it  from  them.  To  the 
best  among  them  it  is  sacred  even." 

"And  the  Comely  Ones?" 

"It  is  their  chief  mission,"  he  replied.  "Always  remem- 
ber that.  It's  sacred."  He  fixed  his  kind  eyes  gravely  on 
my  face. 


92  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"Ah,  worship,  you  mean,"  I  said.  "I  understand."  Again 
we  stared  for  some  minutes.  "Yet  all  are  not  comely,  are 
they?'"  I  asked  presently. 

The  fire  again  shone  faintly  in  his  eyes  as  he  watched 
me  a  moment  without  answering.  It  caught  me  away.  I 
am  not  sure  I  heard  his  words,  but  I  think  they  ran  like 
this: 

"That's  just  the  point  where  civilization — so  far — has 
always  stopped." 

I  remember  he  ceased  tinkling  then ;  our  talk  ceased  too. 
I  was  exhausted.  He  told  me  to  remember  what  he  had 
said,  and  to  lie  down  and  rest.  He  rang  the  bell,  and  a 
man,  one  of  the  four  who  had  held  me,  came  in. 

"Ask  Nurse  Robbins  to  come  here  a  moment,  please,"  he 
said.  And  a  moment  later  the  Comely  One  entered  softly 
and  stood  beside  my  bed.  She  did  not  look  at  me.  Dr. 
Fillery  began  again  his  little  tinkling.  ".  .  .  wishes  to 
apologize  to  you  most  sincerely,  nurse,  for  his  mistake. 
He  meant  no  harm,  believe  me.  There  is  no  danger  in  him, 
nor  will  he  ever  repeat  it.  His  ignorance  of  our  ways,  I 
must  ask  you  to  believe " 

"Oh,  it's  nothing,  sir,"  she  interrupted.  "I've  quite  for- 
gotten it  already.  And  usually  he's  as  good  as  gold  and 
perfectly  quiet."  She  blushed,  glancing  shyly  at  me  with 
clear  invitation. 

"It  will  not  recur,"  repeated  the  Doctor  positively.  "He 
has  promised  me.  He  is  very,  very  sorry  and  ashamed." 

The  nurse  looked  more  boldly  a  moment.  I  saw  her  silver 
teeth.  I  saw  the  hint  of  soft  fire  in  her  poor  pitiful  eyes, 
but  far,  far  away  and,  as  she  thought,  safely  hidden. 

"Pitiful  one,  I  will  not  touch  you,"  I  said  instantly.  "I 
know  that  you  are  sacred." 

I  noticed  at  once  that  her  sweet  natural  perfume  increased 
about  her  as  I  said  the  words,  but  her  eyes  were  lowered, 
though  she  smiled  a  little,  and  her  little  cheeks  grew 
coloured.  I  saw  her  small  teeth  of  silvery  marble  again. 
Our  work  was  visible.  I  liked  it. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  93 

"You  have  promised  me,"  said  Dr.  Fillery,  rising  to  go 
out. 

"I  promise,"  I  said,  while  the  Comely  One  was  arranging 
my  pillows  and  sheets  with  quick,  clever  hands,  sometimes 
touching  my  cheek  on  purpose  as  she  did  so.  "I  will  not 
worship,  unless  it  is  commanded  of  me  first.  The  increased 
sweetness  of  her  smell  will  tell  me." 

But  indeed  already  I  had  forgotten  her,  and  I  no  longer 
realized  who  it  was  that  tripped  about  my  bed,  doing 
numerous  little  things  to  make  me  comfortable.  My  friend, 
the  understanding  one,  companion  of  my  big  friend,  Mason, 
who  was  dead,  also  had  left  the  room.  His  twitching  mouth, 
his  laughter,  and  his  shining  eyes  were  gone.  I  was  aware 
that  the  Comely  One  remained,  doing  all  manner  of  little 
things  about  me  and  my  bed,  unnecessary  things,  but  my 
pity  and  my  worship  were  not  asked,  so  I  forgot  her.  My 
thinking  had  wearied  me,  and  my  feeling  was  not  touched. 
I  began  to  hum  softly  to  myself ;  my  giant  rhythms  rose ;  I 
went  forth  towards  my  Powers  of  Wind  and  Fire,  full  of 
my  own  natural  joy.  I  forgot  the  Race  with  its  men,  its 
women,  its  rules  and  games,  its  tiny  tricks,  its  civilization. 
I  was  free  for  a  little  with  my  own. 

One  detail  interfered  a  little  with  the  rhythms,  but  only 
for  a  second  and  very  faintly  even  then.  The  Comely  One's 
face  grew  dark. 

"He's  gone  off  asleep — actually,"  I  heard  her  mutter,  as 
she  left  the  room  with  a  fling  of  her  little  skirts,  shutting 
the  door  behind  her  with  a  bang. 

That  bang  was  far  away.  I  was  already  rising  and 
falling  in  that  natural  happy  state  which  to  me  meant  free- 
dom. It  is  hard  to  tell  about,  but  that  dear  Fillery  knows, 
I  am  sure,  exactly  what  I  know,  though  he  has  forgotten 
it.  He  has  known  us  somewhere,  I  feel.  He  understands 
our  service.  But,  like  me,  he  has  forgotten  too. 

What  really  happened  to  me?  Where  did  I  go,  what 
did  I  see  and  feel  when  my  rhythms  took  me  off? 


94  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Thinking  is  nowhere  in  it — I  can  tell  him  that.  I  am 
conscious  of  the  Sun. 

One  difficulty  is  that  my  being  here  confuses  me.  Here 
I  am  already  caught,  confined  and  straitened.  I  am  within 
certain  limits.  I  can  only  move  in  three  ways,  three  measure- 
ments, three  dimensions.  The  space  I  am  in  here  allows 
only  little  rhythms ;  they  are  coarse  and  slow  and  heavy, 
and  beat  against  confining  walls  as  it  were,  are  thrown  back, 
cross  and  recross  each  other,  so  that  while  they  themselves 
grow  less,  their  confusion  grows  greater.  The  forms  and 
outlines  I  can  build  with  them  are  poor  and  clumsy  and 
insignificant.  Spirals  I  cannot  make.  Then  I  forget. 

Into  these  small  rhythms  I  cannot  compress  myself ;  the 
squeezing  hurts.  Yet  neither  can  I  make  them  bigger  to 
suit  myself.  I  would  break  forth  towards  the  Sun. 

Thus  I  feel  cramped,  confused  and  crippled.  It  is  almost 
impossible  to  tell  of  my  big  rhythms,  for  it  is  an  attempt 
to  tell  of  one  thing  in  terms  of  another.  How  can  I  fix  fire 
and  wind  upon  the  point  of  a  pin,  for  instance,  and  examine 
them  through  a  magnifying-glass?  The  Sun  remains.  What 
I  experience,  really,  when  I  go  off  into  my  own  freedom  is 
release.  My  rhythms  are  of  the  Sun.  They  are  his  messen- 
gers, they  are  my  law,  they  are  my  life  and  happiness.  By 
means  of  them  I  fulfill  the  purpose  of  my  being.  I  work, 
so  Fillery  calls  it.  I  build. 

That,  at  any  rate,  is  literally  true.  My  thinking  stops 
at  that  point,  perhaps;  but  "I  think"  I  mean  by  "release" 
— that  I  escape  back  from  being  trapped  by  all  these 
separate  little  individualities,  human  beings  each  working 
on  his  own,  for  his  own,  and  against  all  the  others — escape 
from  this  stifling  tangle  into  the  sweep  of  my  big  rhythms 
which  work  together  and  in  unison.  I  search  for  lost 
companions,  but  do  not  find  them — the  golden  skins  and 
ladiant  faces,  the  mighty  figures  and  the  splendid  shapes. 

They  work  without  effort,  however.  That  is  another 
difference. 

I,  too,  work,  only  I  work  with  them,  and  never  against 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  95 

them.  I  can  draw  upon  them  as  they  can  draw  upon  me. 
We  do  draw  on  one  another.  We  know  harmony.  Service 
is  our  method  and  system. 

My  dear  Fillery  also  wants  to  know  who  "we"  are.  How 
can  I  tell  him?  The  moment  I  try  to  "think,"  I  seem  to 
forget.  This  forgetting,  indeed,  is  one  of  the  limits  against 
which  I  bang  myself,  so  that  I  am  flung  back  upon  the 
tangle  of  criss-cross,  tiny  rhythms  which  confuse  and 
obliterate  the  very  thing  he  wants  to  know.  Yet  the  Sun  I 
never  forget — father  of  fire  and  wind..  My  companions  are 
lost  temporarily.  I  am  shut  off  from  them.  It  seems  I 
cannot  have  them  and  the  Race  at  the  same  time.  I  yearn 
and  suffer  to  rejoin  them.  The  service  we  all  know  together 
is  great  joy.  Of  love,  this  love  between  two  isolated  indi- 
viduals the  Race  counts  the  best  thing  they  have — we  know 
nothing. 

Now,  here  is  one  thing  I  can  understand  quite  clearly : 

I  have  watched  and  helped  the  Race,  as  he  calls  it,  for 
countless  ages.  Yet  from  outside  it.  Never  till  now  have 
I  been  inside  its  limits  with  it.  And  a  dim  sense  of  having 
watched  it  through  a  veil  or  curtain  comes  to  me.  I  can 
faintly  recall  that  I  tried  to  urge  my  big  rhythms  in  among 
its  members,  as  great  waves  of  heat  or  sound  might  be 
launched  upon  an  ant-heap.  I  used  to  try  to  force  and  pro- 
ject my  vast  rhythms  into  their  tiny  ones,  hoping  to  make 
these  latter  swell  and  rise  and  grow — but  never  with  success. 
Though  a  few  members,  here  and  there,  felt  them  and 
struggled  to  obey  and  use  their  splendid  swing,  the  rest  did 
not  seem  to  notice  them  at  all.  .  .  .  Indeed,  they  objected 
to  the  struggling  efforts  of  the  few  who  did  feel  them,  for 
their  own  small  accustomed  rhythms  were  interfered  with. 
The  few  were  generally  broken  into  little  pieces  and  pushed 
violently  out  of  the  way. 

And  this  made  me  feel  pitiful,  I  remember  dimly;  because 
these  smaller  rhythms,  though  insignificant,  were  exquisite. 
They  were  of  extraordinary  beauty.  Could  they  only  have 
been  increased,  the  Race  that  knew  and  used  them  must 


96  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

have  changed  my  own  which,  though  huge  and  splendid  of 
their  kind,  lacked  the  intense,  perfect  loveliness  of  the 
smaller  kind. 

The  Race,  had  it  accepted  mine  and  mastered  them,  must 
have  carried  themselves  and  me  towards  still  mightier 
rhythms  which  I  alone  could  never  reach. 

This,  then,  is  clear  to  me,  though  very  faint  now.  Fillery, 
who  can  think  for  a  long  time,  instead  of  like  me  for 
seconds  only,  will  understand  what  I  mean.  For  if  I  tell 
him  what  "we"  did,  he  may  be  able  to  think  out  what  "we" 
were. 

"Your  work?"  he  asked  me  too. 

I'm  not  sure  I  know  what  he  means  by  "work."  We  were 
incessantly  active,  but  not  for  ourselves.  There  was  no 
effort.  There  was  easy  and  sure  accomplishment — in  the 
sense  that  nothing  could  stop  or  hinder  our  fulfilling  our 
own  natures.  Obstacles,  indeed,  helped  our  power  and  made 
it  greater,  for  everything  feeds  fire  and  opposition  adds  to 
the  pressure  of  wind.  Our  main  activity  was  to  make 
perfect  forms.  We  were  form-builders.  Apart  from  this, 
our  "work"  was  to  maintain  and  keep  active  all  rhythms 
less  than  our  own,  yet  of  our  kind.  I  speak  of  my  own 
kind  alone.  We  had  no  desire  to  be  known  outside  our 
kind.  We  worked  and  moved  and  built  up  swiftly,  but  out 
of  sight — an  endless  service. 

"You  are  the  Powers  behind  what  we  call  Nature,  then  ?" 
the  dear  Fillery  asked  me.  "You  operate  behind  growing 
things,  even  behind  inanimate  things  like  trees  and  stones 
and  flowers.  Your  big  rhythms,  as  you  call  them,  are  our 
Laws  of  Nature.  Your  own  particular  department,  your 
own  elements  evidently,  were  heat  and  air." 

I  could  not  answer  that.  But,  as  he  said  it,  I  saw  in  his 
grey  eyes  the  flash  of  fire  which  so  few  of  his  Race  pos- 
sessed ;  and  I  felt  vaguely  that  he  was  one  of  the  struggling 
members  who  was  aware  of  the  big  rhythms  and  who 
would  be  put  away  in  little  pieces  later  by  the  rest.  It 
made  me  pitiful.  "Forget  your  own  tiny  rhythms,"  I  said, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  97 

"and  come  over  to  us.  But  bring  your  tiny  rhythms  with 
you  because  they  are  so  exquisitely  lovely.  We  shall  in- 
crease them." 

He  did  not  answer  me.  His  mouth  twitched  at  the 
corners,  and  he  had  an  attack  of  that  irritation  which,  he 
says,  is  relieved  and  expressed  by  laughter.  Yet  the  face 
shone. 

The  laughter,  however,  was  a  very  quick,  full,  natural 
answer,  all  the  same.  It  was  happy  and  enthusiastic.  I 
saw  that  laughter  made  his  rhythms  bigger  at  once.  Then 
laughter  was  probably  the  means  to  use.  It  was  a  sort  of 
bridge. 

"Your  instantaneous  comprehension  of  our  things  puzzles 
me,"  he  said.  "You  grasp  our  affairs  in  all  their  relations 
so  swiftly*  Yet  it  is  all  new  to  you."  His  voice  and  face 
made  me  wish  to  stroke  and  help  him,  he  was  so  dear  and 
eager.  "How  do  you  manage  it?"  he  asked  point  blank. 
"Our  things  are  surely  foreign  to  your  nature." 

"But  they  are  of  children,"  I  told  him.  "They  are  small 
and  so  very  simple.  There  are  no  difficulties.  Your  lan- 
guage is  block  letters  because  your  self-expression,  as  you 
call  it,  is  so  limited.  It  all  comes  to  me  at  a  glance.  I  and 
my  kind  can  remember  a  million  tiniest  details  without 
effort." 

He  did  not  laugh,  but  his  face  looked  full  of  questions. 
I  could  not  help  him  further.  "A  scrap,  probably,  of  what 
you've  taught  us,"  I  heard  him  mumble,  though  no  further 
questions  came.  "Well,"  he  went  on  presently,  while  I  lay 
and  watched  the  pale  fire  slip  in  tiny  waves  about  his  eyes, 
"remember  this :  since  our  alphabet  is  so  easy  to  you,  follow 
it,  stick  to  it,  do  not  go  outside  it.  There's  a  good  rule  that 
will  save  trouble  for  others  as  well  as  for  yourself." 

"I  remember  and  I  try.  But  it  is  not  always  easy.  I  get 
so  cramped  and  stiff  and  lifeless  with  it." 

"This  sunless,  chilly  England,  of  course,  cannot  feed 
you,"  he  said.  "The  sense  of  beauty  in  our  Race,  too,  is 
very  poor." 


98  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Once  he  suddenly  looked  up  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  my 
face.  His  manner  became  very  earnest. 

"Now,  listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "I'm  going  to  read  you 
something;  I  want  you  to  tell  me  what  you  make  of  it.  It's 
private ;  that  is,  I  have  no  right  to  show  it  to  others,  but  as 
no  one  would  understand  it — with  the  exception  possibly  of 
yourself — secrecy  is  not  of  importance."  And  his  mouth 
twitched  a  little. 

He  drew  a  sheaf  of  papers  from  an  inner  pocket,  and  I 
saw  they  were  covered  with  fine  writing.  I  laughed;  this 
writing  always  made  me  laugh — it  was  so  laborious  and 
slow.  The  writing  I  knew  best,  of  course,  lay  all  over  and 
inside  the  earth  and  skies.  The  privacy  also  made  me  laugh, 
so  strange  seemed  the  idea  to  me,  and  so  impossible — this 
idea  of  secrecy.  It  was  such  an  admission  of  ignorance. 

"I  will  understand  it  quickest  by  reading  it,"  I  said.  "I 
take  in  a  page  at  once — in  your  block  letters." 

But  he  preferred  to  read  it  out  himself,  so  that  he  could 
note  the  effect  upon  me,  he  explained,  of  definite  passages. 
He  saw  that  I  guessed  his  purpose,  and  we  laughed  together 
a  moment.  "When  you  tire  of  listening,"  he  said,  "just  tell 
me  and  I'll  pause."  I  gave  him  my  hand  to  hold.  "It  helps 
me  to  stay  here,"  I  explained,  and  he  nodded  as  he  grasped 
me  in  his  warm  firm  clasp. 

"It's  written  by  one  who  may  have  known  you  and  your 
big  rhythms,  though  I  can't  be  sure,"  he  added.  "One  of 
— er — my  patients  wrote  it,  someone  who  believed  she  was 
in  communication  with  a  kind  of  immense  Nature-spirit." 

Then  he  began  to  read  in  his  clear,  windy  voice : 

"'I  sit  and  weave.  I  feel  strange;  as  if  I  had  so  much 
consciousness  that  words  cannot  explain  it.  The  failure  of 
others  makes  my  work  more  hard,  but  my  own  purposes 
never  fail,  I  am  associated  with  those  who  need  me.  The 
universal  doors  are  open  to  me.  I  compass  Creation.' " 

But  already  I  began  to  hum  my  songs,  though  to  please 
him  I  kept  the  music  low,  and  he,  dear  Fillery,  did  not  bid 
me  stop,  but  only  tightened  his  grasp  upon  my  hand.  I 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  99 

listened    with    pleasure    and    satisfaction.      Therefore    I 
hummed. 

"  'I  am  silent,  seeking  no  expression,  needing  no  com- 
munication, satisfied  with  the  life  that  is  in  me.  I  do  not 
even  wish  to  be  known  about ' " 

"That's  where  your  Race,"  I  put  in,  "is  to  me  as  children. 
All  they  do  must  be  shouted  about  so  loud  or  they  think  it 
has  not  happened." 

"  'I  do  not  wish  to  be  forced  to  obtrude  myself/ "  he 
went  on.  "  'There  are  hosts  like  me.  We  do  not  want  that 
which  does  not  belong  to  us.  We  do  not  want  that 
hindrance,  that  opposition  which  rouses  an  undesirable  con- 
sciousness ;  for  without  that  opposition  we  could  never  have 
known  of  disobedience.  We  are  formless.  The  formless 
is  the  real.  That  cannot  die.  It  is  eternal.'  " 

Again  he  tightened  his  grasp,  and  this  time  also  laid  his 
eyes  a  moment  on  my  own,  over  the  top  of  his  paper,  so 
that  I  kept  my  music  back  with  a  great  effort.  For  it  was 
hard  not  to  express  myself  when  my  own  came  calling  in 
this  fashion. 

He  continued  reading  aloud.  He  selected  passages  now, 
instead  of  £oing  straight  through  the  pages.  The  words 
helped  memory  in  me ;  flashes  of  what  I  had  forgotten  came 
back  in  sheets  of  colour  and  waves  of  music;  the  phrases 
built  little  spirals,  as  it  were,  between  two  states.  Of  these 
two  states,  I  now  divined,  he  understood  one  perfectly — his 
own,  and  the  other — mine — partially.  Yet  he  had  a  little  of 
both,  I  knew,  in  himself.  With  me  it  was  similar,  only  the 
understood  state  was  not  the  same  with  us.  To  the  Race,  of 
course,  what  he  read  would  have  no  meaning. 

"The  Comely  One  and  the  four  figures,"  I  said,  "how  they 
would  turn  white  and  run  if  they  could  hear  you,  showing 
their  yellow  teeth  and  dim  eyes !" 

His  face  remained  grave  and  eager,  though  I  could  see 
the  laughter  running  about  beneath  the  tight  brown  skin 
as  he  went  on  reading  his  little  bits. 

'  'We  heard  nothing  of  man,  and  were  rarely  even  con- 


100  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

scious  of  him,  although  he  benefited  by  our  work  in  all  that 
sustained  and  conditioned  him.  The  wise  are  silent,  the 
foolish  speak,  and  the  children  are  thus  led  astray,  for 
wisdom  is  not  knowledge,  it  is  a  realization  of  the  scheme 
and  of  one's  own  part  in  it/  " 

He  took  a  firmer,  broader  grip  of  my  hand  as  he  read  the 
next  bit.  I  felt  the  tremble  of  his  excitement  run  into  my 
wrist  and  arm.  His  voice  deepened  and  shook.  It  was  like 
a  little  storm : 

"  'Then,  suddenly,  we  heard  man's  triumphant  voice.  We 
became  conscious  of  him  as  an  evolving  entity.  Our  Work 
had  told.  We  had  built  his  form  and  processes  so  faith- 
fully. We  knew  that  when  he  reached  his  height  we  must 
be  submissive  to  his  will/  " 

A  gust  of  memory  flashed  by  me  as  I  heard.  Those  small 
but  perfect,  exquisite,  lovely  rhythms ! 

"Who  called  me  here?  Whose  voice  reached  after  me, 
bringing  me  into  this  undesirable  consciousness?"  I  cried 
aloud,  as  the  memory  went  tearing  by,  then  vanished  before 
I  could  recover  it.  At  the  same  time  Fillery  let  go  my  hand, 
and  the  little  bridge  was  snapped.  I  felt  what  he  called 
pain.  It  passed  at  once.  I  found  his  hand  again,  but  the 
bridge  was  not  rebuilt.  How  white  his  skin  had  grown,  I 
noticed,  as  I  looked  up  at  his  face.  But  the  eyes  shone 
grandly.  "I  shall  find  the  way,"  I  said.  "We  shall  go  back 
together  to  our  eternal  home." 

He  went  on  reading  as  though  I  had  not  interrupted,  but 
I  found  it  less  easy  to  listen  now. 

I  realized  then  that  he  was  gone.  He  had  left  the  room, 
though  I  had  not  seen  him  go.  I  had  been  away. 

It  was  some  days  ago  that  this  occurred.  It  was  to-day, 
a  few  hours  ago,  that  I  seized  the  Comely  One  and  tried  to 
comfort  her,  poor  hungry  member  of  this  little  Race. 

But  both  occurrences  help  us — help  dear  Fillery  and  my- 
self— to  understand  how  difficult  it  is  to  answer  his  questions 
and  tell  him  exactly  what  he  wants  to  know. 

"How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long!"     I  hear  his  yearning 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  101 

cry.     "Yet  other  beings  cannot  help  us;  they  can  only  tell 
us  what  their  own  part  is." 

After  the  door  had  clicked  I  knew  release  for  a  bit — re- 
lease from  a  state  I  partially  understood  and  so  found  irk- 
some, into  another  where  I  felt  at  home  and  so  found 
pleasurable.  In  the  big  rhythms  my  nature  expressed  itself 
apparently.  I  rose,  seeking  my  lost  companions.  They — 
the  Devonham  and  his  busy  little  figures — called  it  sleep. 
It  may  be  "sleep."  But  I  find  there  what  I  seek  yet  have 
forgotten,  and  that  with  me  were  dear  Fillery  and  another 
— a  Comely  One  whom  he  brings — as  though  we  belong 
together  and  have  a  common  origin.  But  this  other  Comely 
One — who  is  it? 


CHAPTER  X 

ABOUT  a  week  after  the  arrival  of  LeVallon  in  London, 
Dr.  Fillery  came  out  of  the  Home  one  morning  early, 
upon  some  uninteresting  private  business.  He  had  left 
"LeVallon"  happy  with  his  books  and  garden,  Devonham 
was  with  him  to  answer  questions  or  direct  his  energies; 
the  other  "cases"  in  the  establishment  were  moving  nicely 
towards  a  cure. 

The  November  air  was  clear  and  almost  bright;  no 
personal  worries  troubled  him.  His  mind  felt  free  and 
light. 

It  was  one  of  those  mornings  when  Nature  slips,  very 
close  and  sweet,  into  the  heart,  so  close  and  sweet  that  the 
mind  wonders  why  people  quarrel  and  disagree,  when  it 
is  so  easy  to  forgive,  and  the  planet  seems  but  a  big,  lovely, 
happy  garden,  evil  an  impossible  nightmare,  and  personal 
needs  few  and  simple. 

He  walked  by  cross  roads  towards  Primrose  Hill,  enter- 
ing Regent's  Park  near  the  Zoo.  An  early  white  frost  was 
rapidly  melting  in  the  sun.  The  sky  showed  a  faint  tinge 
of  blue.  He  saw  floating  sea-gulls.  These,  and  a  faint 
breeze  that  stirred  the  yellowing  last  leaves  of  autumn,  gave 
his  heart  a  sudden  lift. 

And  this  lift  was  in  the  direction  of  a  forbidden  corner. 
He  was  aware  of  some  exquisite  dawn-wind  far  away 
stirring  a  million  flowers,  dew  sparkled,  streams  splashed 
and  murmured.  A  valley  gleamed  and  vanished,  yet  left 
across  his  mind  its  shining  trail.  .  .  .  For  this  lift  of  his 
heart  made  him  soar  into  a  region  where  it  was  only  too 
easy  to  override  temptation.  Fillery,  however,  though  his 
invisible  being  soared,  kept  both  visible  feet  firmly  on 

102 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  103 

the  ground.  The  surface  was  slippery,  being  melted  by 
the  sun,  but  frost  kept  the  earth  hard  and  frozen  under- 
neath. His  balance  never  was  in  danger.  He  remained 
detached  and  a  spectator. 

She  walked  beside  him  nevertheless,  a  figure  of  purity 
and  radiance,  perfumed,  soft,  delicious.  She  was  so 
ignorant  of  life.  That  was  her  wonder  partly;  for  beauty 
was  her  accident  and,  while  admirable,  was  not  a  deter- 
mining factor.  Life,  in  its  cruder  sense,  she  did  not  know, 
though  moving  through  the  thick  of  it.  It  neither  touched 
nor  soiled  her ;  she  brushed  its  dirt  and  dust  aside  as  though 
a  non-conducting  atmosphere  surrounded  her.  Her  emo- 
tions, deep  and  searching,  had  remained  untorn.  A  quality 
of  pristine  innocence  belonged  to  her,  as  though,  in  the 
noisy  clamour  of  ambitious  civilized  life,  she  remained  still 
aware  of  Eden.  Her  grace,  her  loveliness,  her  simplicity 
moved  by  his  side  as  naturally,  it  seemed  to  him,  as  air 
or  perfume. 

"Iraida,"  he  murmured  to  himself,  with  a  smile  of  joy. 
"Nayan  Khilkoff.  All  the  men  worship  and  adore  you, 
yet  respect  you  too.  They  cannot  touch  you.  You  remain 
aloof,  unstained."  And,  remembering  LeVallon's  remarks 
in  cinema  and  theatre,  he  could  have  sung  at  this  mere 
thought  of  her. 

"Untouched  by  coarseness,  something  unearthly  about 
your  loveliness  of  soul,  a  baby,  a  saint,  and  to  all  the  men 
in  Khilkoff's  Studio,  a  mother.  Where  do  you  really  come 
from?  Whence  do  you  derive?  Your  lovely  soul  can  have 
no  dealings  with  our  common  flesh.  How  many  young 
fellows  have  you  saved  already,  how  many  floundering 
characters  redeemed!  They  crave  your  earthly,  physical 
love.  Instead  you  surprise  and  disappoint  and  shock  them 
into  safety  again — by  giving  to  them  Love.  ...  !" 

And,  as  he  half  repeated  his  vivid  thoughts  aloud,  he 
suddenly  saw  her  coming  towards  him  from  the  ornamental 
water,  and  instantly,  wondering  what  he  should  say  to  her, 
his  mind  contracted.  The  thing  in  him  that  sang  went 


104  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

backward  into  silence.  He  put  a  brake  upon  himself.  But 
he  watched  her  coming  nearer,  wondering  what  brought 
her  so  luckily  into  Regent's  Park,  and  all  the  way  from 
Chelsea,  at  such  an  hour.  She  moved  so  lightly,  sweetly; 
she  was  so  intangible  and  lovely.  He  feared  her  eyes,  her 
voice. 

They  drew  nearer.  From  looking  to  right  and  left,  he 
raised  his  head.  She  was  close,  quite  close,  a  hundred 
yards  away.  That  walk,  that  swing,  that  poise  of  head 
and  neck  he  could  not  mistake  anywhere.  His  whole  being 
glowed,  thrilled,  and  yet  contracted  as  in  pain. 

A  sentence  about  the  weather,  about  her  own,  her  father's, 
health,  about  his  calling  to  see  them  shortly,  rose  to  his 
lips.  He  turned  his  eyes  away,  then  again  looked  up.  They 
were  now  not  twenty  yards  apart;  in  another  moment  he 
would  have  raised  his  hat,  when,  with  a  sensation  of  cold 
disappointment  in  him,  she  went  past  in  totally  irresponsive 
silence.  It  was  a  stranger — a  shop  girl,  a  charwoman,  a 
bus-conductor's  wife — anybody  but  she  whom  he  had 
thought. 

How  could  he  have  been  so  utterly  mistaken  ?  It  amazed 
him.  It  was,  indeed,  months  since  they  had  met,  yet  his 
knowledge  of  her  appearance  was  so  accurate  and  detailed 
that  such  an  error  seemed  incredible.  He  had  experienced, 
besides,  the  actual  thrill. 

The  phenomenon,  however,  was  not  new  to  him.  Often 
had  he  experienced  it,  much  as  others  have.  He  knew, 
from  this,  that  she  was  somewhere  near,  coming  deliciously, 
deliberately  towards  him,  moving  every  minute  firmly 
nearer,  from  a  point  in  great  London  town  which  she  had 
left  just  at  the  precise  moment  which  would  time  her 
crossing  his  own  path  later.  They  would  meet  presently, 
if  not  now.  Fate  had  arranged  all  details,  and  something 
in  him  was  aware  of  it  before  it  happened. 

The  phenomenon,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  was  repeated  twice 
again  in  the  next  half-hour :  he  saw  her — on  both  occasions 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  105 

beyond  the  possibility  of  question — coming  towards  him, 
yet  each  time  it  was  a  complete  stranger  masquerading  in 
her  guise. 

It  meant,  he  knew,  that  their  two  minds — hearts,  too,  he 
wondered,  with  a  sense  of  secret  happiness,  enjoyed  in- 
tensely then  instantly  suppressed — were  wirelessing  to  one 
another  across  the  vast  city,  and  that  both  transmitter  and 
receiver,  their  physical  bodies,  would  meet  shortly  round 
the  corner,  or  along  the  crowded  street.  Strong  currents 
of  desiring  thought,  he  knew,  he  hoped,  he  wondered,  were 
trying  to  shape  the  crude  world  nearer  to  the  heart's  desire, 
causing  the  various  intervening  passers-by  to  assume  the 
desirable  form  and  outline  in  advance. 

He  reflected,  following  the  habit  of  his  eager  mind;  this 
wireless  discovery,  after  all,  was  the  discovery  of  a  universal 
principle  in  Nature.  It  was  common  to  all  forms  of  life, 
a  faint  beginning  of  that  advance  towards  marvellous  inter- 
communicating, semi-telepathic  brotherhood  he  had  always 
hoped  for,  believed  in.  ...  Even  plants,  he  remembered, 
according  to  Bose.  .  .  . 

Then,  suddenly,  half-way  down  Baker  Street  he  found 
her  close  beside  him. 

She  was  dressed  so  becomingly,  so  naturally,  that  no 
particular  detail  caught  his  eye,  although  she  wore  more 
colour  than  was  usual  in  the  dull  climate  known  to  English 
people.  There  was  a  touch  of  fur  and  there  were  flowers, 
but  these  were  part  of  her  appearance  as  a  whole,  and  the 
hat  was  so  exactly  right,  though  it  was  here  that  English- 
women generally  went  wrong,  that  he  could  not  remember 
afterwards  what  it  was  like.  It  was  as  suitable  as  natural 
hair.  It  looked  as  if  she  had  grown  it.  The  shining  eyes 
were  what  he  chiefly  noticed.  They  seemed  to  increase  the 
pale  sunlight  in  the  dingy  street. 

She  was  so  close  that  he  caught  her  perfume  almost  be- 
fore he  recognized  her,  and  a  sense  of  happiness  invaded 
his  whole  being  instantly,  as  he  took  the  slender  hand 


106  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

emerging  from  a  muff  and  held  it  for  a  moment.  The 
casual  sentences  he  had  half  prepared  fled  like  a  flock  of 
birds  surprised.  Their  eyes  met.  .  .  .  And  instantly  the 
sun  rose  over  a  far  Khaketian  valley;  he  was  aware  of 
joy,  of  peace,  of  deep  contentment,  London  obliterated,  the 
entire  world  elsewhere.  He  knew  the  thrill,  the  ecstasy  of 
some  long- forgotten  dawn.  .  .  . 

But  in  that  brief  second  while  he  held  her  hand  and 
gazed  into  her  eyes,  there  flashed  before  him  a  sudden 
apparition.  With  lightning  rapidity  this  picture  darted  past 
between  them,  paused  for  the  tiniest  fraction  of  a  second, 
and  was  gone  again.  So  swiftly  the  figure  shot  across  that 
the  very  glance  he  gave  her  was  intercepted,  its  angle 
changed,  its  meaning  altered.  He  started  involuntarily,  for 
he  knew  that  vision,  the  bright  rushing  messenger,  someone 
who  brought  glad  tidings.  And  this  time  he  recognized  it 
—it  was  the  figure  of  "N.  H." 

The  outward  start,  the  slight  wavering  of  the  eyelids, 
both  were  noticed,  though  not  understood,  much  less  inter- 
preted by  the  young  woman  facing  him. 

"You  are  as  much  surprised  as  I  am,"  he  heard  the 
pleasant,  low-pitched  voice  before  his  face.  "I  thought  you 
were  abroad.  Father  and  I  came  back  from  Sark  only 
yesterday." 

"I  haven't  left  town,"  he  replied.  "It  was  Devonham 
went  to  Switzerland." 

He  was  thinking  of  her  pleasant  voice,  and  wondering 
how  a  mere  voice  could  soothe  and  bless  and  comfort  in 
this  way.  The  picture  of  the  flashing  figure,  too,  pre- 
occupied him.  His  various  mind  was  ever  busy  with  several 
trains  of  thought  at  once,  though  all  correlated.  Why,  he 
was  wondering,  should  that  picture  of  "N.  H."  leave  a  sense 
of  chill  upon  his  heart  r  Why  had  the  first  radiance  of  this 
meeting  thus  already  dimmed  a  little?  Her  nearness,  too, 
confused  him  as  of  old,  making  his  manner  a  trifle  brusque 
and  not  quite  natural,  until  he  found  his  centre  of  control 
again.  He  looked  quickly  up  and  down  the  street,  moved 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  107 

aside  to  let  some  people  pass,  then  turned  to  the  girl  again. 
"Your  holiday  has  done  you  good,  Iraida,"  he  said  quietly ; 
"I  hope  your  father  enjoyed  it  too." 

"We  both  enjoyed  ourselves,"  she  answered,  watching 
him,  something  of  a  protective  air  about  her.  "I  wish  you 
had  been  with  us,  for  that  would  have  made  it  perfect.  I 
was  thinking  that  only  this  morning — as  I  walked  across 
Hyde  Park." 

"How  nice  of  you !  I  believe  I,  too,  was  thinking  of 
you  both,  as  I  walked  through  Regent's  Park."  He  smiled 
for  the  first  time. 

"It's  very  odd,"  she  went  on,  "though  you  can  explain 
it  probably,"  she  added,  with  a  smile  that  met  his  own, 
increasing  it,  "or,  at  any  rate,  Dr.  Devonham  could — but 
I've  seen  you  several  times  this  morning  already — in  the 
last  half -hour.  I've  seen  you  in  other  people  in  the  street, 
I  mean.  Yet  I  wasn't  thinking  of  you  at  the  actual  moment, 
it's  two  months  since  we've  met,  and  I  imagined  you  were 
abroad." 

"Odd,  yes,"  he  said,  half  shyly,  half  curtly.  "It's  an 
experience  many  have,  I  believe." 

She  gazed  up  at  him.  "It's  very  natural,  I  think,  when 
people  like  each  other,  Edward,  and  are  in  sympathy." 

"Yet  it  happens  with  people  who  don't  like  each  other 
too,"  he  objected,  and  at  the  same  moment  was  vexed  that 
he  had  used  the  words. 

Iraida  Khilkoff  laughed.  He  had  the  feeling  that  she 
read  his  thoughts  as  easily  as  if  they  were  printed  in  red 
letters  on  his  grey  felt  hat. 

"There  must  be  some  bond  between  them,  though,"  she 
remarked,  "an  emotion,  I  mean,  whatever  it  may  be — even 
hatred." 

"Probably,  Nayan,"  he  agreed.  "It's  you  now,  not  Devon- 
ham,  that  wants  to  explain  things.  I  think  I  must  take 
you  into  the  Firm,  you  could  take  charge  of  the  female 
patients  with  great  success." 

Whereupon   she  looked  up   at  him   with  such  a   grave 


108  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

mothering  expression  that  he  was  aware  of  her  secret 
power,  her  central  source  of  strength  in  dealing  with  men. 
Her  innocence  and  truth  were  an  atmosphere  about  her, 
protecting  her  as  naturally  and  neatly  as  the  clothes  upon 
her  body.  She  believed  in  men.  He  felt  like  a  child  beside 
her. 

"I'm  in  the  Firm  already,"  she  said,  "for  you  made  me 
a  partner  years  ago  when  I  was  so  high,"  and  her  small 
gloved  hand  indicated  the  stature  of  a  little  girl.  "You 
taught  me  first." 

He  remembered  the  bleak  northern  town  where  fifteen 
years  ago  he  had  known  her  father  as  a  patient  for  some 
minor  ailment,  and  the  friendship  that  grew  out  of  the 
relationship.  He  remembered  the  child  of  nine  or  ten  who 
sat  on  his  knee  and  repeated  to  him  the  Russian  fairy  tales 
her  mother  told  her;  he  recalled  the  charm,  the  wonder, 
the  extraordinary  power  of  belief.  Her  words  brought 
back  again  that  flowered  Caucasian  valley  in  the  sunlight 
and  this,  again,  flashed  upon  the  screen  the  strange  bright 
figure  that  had  already  once  intercepted  their  glance,  as 
though  it  somehow  came  between  them.  .  .  . 

"You  have  one  advantage  over  me,"  he  rejoined  presently, 
"for  in  my  Clinique  the  people  know  that  they  need  treat- 
ment, whereas  in  the  Studio  you  catch  your  patients 
unawares.  They  do  not  know  they're  ill.  You  heal  them 
without  their  being  aware  that  they  need  healing." 

"Yet  some  of  our  habitues  have  found  their  way  later 
to  your  consulting-room,"  she  reminded  him. 

"Merely  to  finish  what  you  had  first  begun — a  sort  of 
convalescence.  You  work  in  the  big,  raw  world,  I  in  a 
mere  specialized  corner  of  it." 

He  turned  away,  lest  the  power  in  her  eyes  overcome 
him.  The  traffic  thundered  past,  the  people  crowded, 
jostling  them.  He  could  have  stood  there  talking  to  her 
all  day  long,  the  London  street  forgotten  or  full  of  flowers 
and  Eden's  trees  and  rippling  summer  streams.  The 
pale  sunlight  caught  her  face  beside  him  and  made  it 
shine.  . 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  109 

He  longed  to  take  her  in  his  arms  and  fly  through  the 
dawn  for  ever,  for  his  clean  mind  saw  her  without  clothing, 
her  hair  loose  in  the  wind,  her  white  shape  fleeing  from 
him,  yet  beckoning  across  a  gleaming  shoulder  that  he  must 
overtake  and  capture  her.  .  .  . 

"I'm  on  my  way  to  St.  Dunstan's,"  he  heard  the  musical 
voice.  "A  friend  of  father's.  .  .  .  Come  with  me,  will 
you?"  And  with  her  muff  she  touched  his  arm,  trying 
to  make  him  turn  her  way.  But  just  as  he  felt  the  touch 
he  saw  the  bright  figure  again.  Swifter  than  himself  and 
far  more  powerful,  it  leaped  dancing  past  and  carried  her 
away  before  his  very  eyes.  She  waved  her  hand,  her  eyes 
faded  like  stars  into  the  distance  of  some  unearthly  spring 
— and  she  was  gone.  A  pang  of  peculiar  anguish  seized 
him,  as  the  mental  picture  flashed  with  the  speed  of  light 
and  vanished.  For  the  figure  seemed  of  elemental  power, 
taking  its  own  with  perfect  ease.  .  .  . 

He  shook  his  head.  "I'll  come  to  see  you  to-morrow 
instead,"  he  told  her.  "I'll  come  to  the  Studio  in  the  after- 
noon, if  you'll  both  be  in.  I'd  like  to  bring  a  friend  with 
me,  if  I  may." 

"Good-bye  then."  She  took  his  hand  and  kept  it.  "I 
shall  expect  you  to  tell  me  all  about  this — friend.  I  knew 
you  had  something  on  your  mind,  for  your  thoughts  have 
been  elsewhere  all  the  time." 

"Julian  LeVallon,"  he  replied  quickly.  "He's  staying 
with  me  indefinitely."  His  face  grew  sjiern  a  moment 
about  the  mouth.  "I  think  he  may  need  you,"  "he  added 
with  abrupt  significance. 

"Julian  LeVallon,"  she  repeated,  the  name  sounding  very 
musical  the  way  her  slightly  foreign  accent  touched  it. 
"And  what  nationality  may  that  be?" 

Dr.  Fillery  hesitated.  "His  parents,  Nayan,  I  believe, 
were  English,"  he  said.  "He  has  lived  all  his  life  in  the 
Jura  Mountains,  alone  with  an  old  scholar,  poet  and 
geologist,  who  brought  him  up.  Of  our  modern  life  he 

knows  little.  I  think  you  may "  He  broke  off.  "His 

mother  died  when  he  was  born,"  he  concluded. 


110  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"And  of  women  he  knows  nothing,"  she  replied,  under- 
standingly,  "so  that  he  will  probably  fall  in  love  with  the 
first  he  sees — with  Nayan." 

"I  hope  so,  Nayan,  and  he  will  be  safe  with  you." 

She  watched  her  companion's  face  for  a  minute  or  two 
with  her  clear  searching  eyes.  She  smiled.  But  his  own 
face  wore  a  mask  now;  no  figure  this  time  flashed  between 
their  deep  understanding  gaze. 

"A  woman,  you  think,  can  teach  and  help  him  more 
than  a  man,"  she  said,  without  lowering  her  eyes. 

"Probably — perhaps,  at  any  rate.  The  material,  I  must 
warn  you  at  once,  is  new  and  strange,  I  want  him  to  meet 
you." 

"Then  I  am  in  the  Firm,"  was  all  she  answered,  "and 
you  can't  do  without  me."  She  let  go  the  hand  she  had 
held  all  this  time,  and  turned  from  him,  looking  once  across 
her  shoulder  as  he,  too,  went  upon  his  way. 

"About  three  o'clock  we  shall  expect  you — and  Mr. 
Julian  LeVallon,"  she  added.  "The  Prometheans  are  com- 
ing too,  as  of  course  you  know,  but  that  won't  matter. 
Father  has  let  the  Studio  to  them." 

"The  more  the  merrier,"  he  answered,  raised  his  hat, 
and  went  on  at  a  rapid  pace  up  Baker  Street. 

But  with  him  up  the  London  street  went  a  flock  of 
thoughts,  hopes,  fears  and  memories  that  were  hard  to 
disentangle.  Lost,  forgotten  dreams  went  with  him  too. 
He  had  known  that  one  day  he  must  be  "executed,"  yet 
with  his  own  hands  he  had  just  slipped  the  noose  about 
his  neck.  Detachment  from  life,  he  realized,  keeping  aloof 
from  the  emotions  that  touch  one's  fellow  beings,  can  only 
be,  after  all,  a  pose.  In  his  case  it  was  evidently  a  pose 
assumed  for  safety  and  self-protection,  an  artificial  attitude 
he  wore  to  keep  his  heart  from  error.  His  love,  born  of 
some  far  unearthly  valley,  undoubtedly  consumed  him, 
while  yet  he  said  it  nay.  .  .  . 

He  had  himself  suggested  bringing  together  the  girl  and 
"N.  H."  There  had  been  no  need  to  do  this.  Yet  he  had 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  111 

deliberately  offered  it,  and  she  had  instantly  accepted.  Even 
while  he  said  the  words  there  was  a  volcano  of  emotion 
in  him,  several  motives  fighting  to  combine.  The  fear  for 
himself,  being  selfish,  he  had  set  aside  at  once;  there  was 
also  the  fear  for  her — the  odd  certainty  in  him  that  at  last 
her  woman's  nature  would  be  waked;  lastly,  the  fear  for 
"N.  H."  himself.  And  here  he  clashed  with  his  promise 
to  Devonham.  Behind  the  simple  proposal  lay  these  various 
threads  of  motive,  emotion  and  qualification. 

Now,  as  he  hurried  along  the  street,  they  rushed  to  and 
fro  about  his  mind,  each  at  its  own  speed  and  with  its  own 
impetuous  strength.  It  was  the  last  one,  however,  the 
certainty  that  her  mere  presence  must  evoke  the  "N.  H." 
personality,  banishing  the  commonplace  LeVallon;  it  was 
this  that,  in  the  end,  perhaps  troubled  him  most.  An  intuitive 
conviction  assured  him  that  this  was  bound  to  be  the  result 
of  their  meeting.  LeVallon  would  sink  down  out  of  sight ; 
"N.  H."  would  emerge  triumphant  and  vital,  bringing  his 
elemental  power  with  him.  The  girl  would  summon 
him.  .  .  . 

"I  must  tell  Paul  first,"  he  decided.  "I  must  consult  his 
judgment.  Otherwise  I'm  breaking  my  promise.  If  Paul 
is  against  it,  I  will  send  an  excuse.  .  .  ." 

With  this  proviso,  he  dismissed  the  matter  from  his  mind, 
noting  only  how  clearly  it  revealed  his  own  keen  desire 
to  let  LeVallon  disappear  and  "N.  H."  become  active.  He 
himself  yearned  for  the  interest,  stimulus  and  companion- 
ship of  the  strange  new  being  that  was  "N.  H." 

The  other  aspect  of  the  problem  he  dismissed  quickly 
too :  he  would  lose  Nayan.  Yes,  but  he  had  never  possessed 
the  right  to  hold  her.  He  was  strong,  indifferent,  de- 
tached. .  .  .  His  life  in  any  case  was  a  sacrifice  upon  the 
altar  of  a  mistake  with  regard  to  which  he  had  not  been 
consulted.  His  whole  existence  must  be  passed  in  worship 
before  this  altar,  unles?  he  was  to  admit  himself  a  failure. 
His  ideal  possession  of  the  girl,  he  consoled  himself,  need 
know  no  change.  To  watch  her  womanhood,  hitherto 


112  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

untouched  by  any  man,  to  watch  this  bloom  and  ripen  at 
the  bidding  of  another  must  mean  pain.  But  he  faced  the 
loss.  And  a  curious  sense  of  compensation  lay  in  it  some- 
where— the  strange  notion  that  she  and  he  would  share 
"N.  H."  in  a  sense  between  them.  He  was  already  aware 
of  a  deep  subtle  kinship  between  the  three  of  them,  a  kin- 
ship hardly  of  this  physical  world.  And,  after  all,  the 
interests  of  "N.  H."  must  come  first.  He  had  chosen  his 
life,  accepted  it,  at  any  rate;  he  must  remain  true  to  his 
high  ideal.  This  strange  being,  blown  by  the  winds  of 
chance  into  his  keeping,  must  be  his  first  consideration. 

"LeVallon"  needed  no  special  help,  neither  from  himself, 
nor  from  her,  nor  from  others.  "LeVallon"  was  ordinary 
enough,  if  not  commonplace,  his  only  interest  being  at  those 
thin  places  in  his  being  where  the  submerged  personality 
of  "N.  H."  peeped  through.  Paul  Devonham,  he  felt  con- 
vinced, was  wrong  in  thinking  "N.  H."  to  be  the  transient 
manifestation. 

It  was  the  reverse  that  Dr.  Fillery  believed  to  be  the 
truth.  He  saw  in  "N.  H."  almost  a  new  type  of  being 
altogether.  In  that  physical  body  warred  two  personalities 
certainly,  but  "N.  H."  was  the  important  one,  and  Le- 
Vallon merely  the  transient  outer  one,  masquerading  on 
the  surface  merely,  a  kind  of  automatic  and  mechanical 
personality,  gleaned,  picked  up,  trained  and  educated,  as 
n  were,  by  the  few  years  spent  among  the  human  herd. 

And  this  "N.  H."  needed  help,  the  best,  the  wisest  pos- 
sible. Both  male  and  female  help  "N.  H."  demanded. 
He,  Edward  Fillery,  could  supply  the  former,  but  the  latter 
could  be  furnished  only  by  some  woman  in  whom  innocence, 
truth  and  a  natural  mother-love — the  three  deepest  feminine 
qualities — were  happily  combined.  Nayan  possessed  them 
all.  "N.  H.,"  the  strange  bright  messenger,  bringing  per- 
haps glad  tidings  into  life,  had  need  of  her. 

And  Fillery,  as  his  thoughts  ran  down  these  sad  and 
happy  paths  of  that  lost  valley  in  his  blood,  realized  the 
meaning  of  the  flashing  intuition  that  had  pained  yet 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  113 

gladdened  him  half  an  hour  before  with  its  convincing 
symbolic  picture. 

This  private  Eden  secreted  in  his  depths  he  revealed 
to  no  one,  though  Paul,  his  intimate  friend  and  keen 
assistant,  divined  its  general  neighbourhood  and  geog- 
raphy to  some  extent.  It  was  the  girl  who  invariably 
opened  its  ivory  gates  for  him.  They  had  but  to  meet 
and  talk  a  moment,  when,  with  a  sudden  drift  of  wonder, 
beauty,  wildness,  this  Khaketian  inheritance  rose  before 
him.  Its  sunny  brilliance,  its  flowers,  its  perfumes  se- 
duced and  caught  him  away.  The  unearthly  mood  stole 
over  him.  Thought  took  wings  of  imagination  and  soared 
beyond  the  planet.  He  foresaw,  easily,  the  effect  she 
would  produce  upon  "LeVallon."  .  .  . 

He  came  back  to  earth  again  at  the  door  of  the  Home, 
smiling,  as  so  often  before,  at  these  brief  wanderings  in 
his  secret  Eden,  yet  perfectly  able  to  pigeon-hole  the 
experience,  each  detail  explained,  labelled,  docketed,  and 
therefore  harmless.  .  .  . 

He  found  Devonham  in  the  study  and  at  once  told 
him  of  his  suggestion  and  its  possible  results,  and  his 
assistant,  resting  before  lunch  after  a  long  morning's 
work,  looked  up  at  him  with  his  quick,  observant  air. 
Noticing  the  light  in  the  eyes,  the  softer  expression  about 
the  mouth,  the  general  appearance  of  a  strong  and  recent 
stimulus,  he  easily  divined  their  origin,  and  showed  his 
pleasure  in  his  face.  He  longed  for  his  old  friend  to  be 
humanized  and  steadied  by  some  deep  romance.  There 
was  a  curious  new  watchful  attitude  also  about  him, 
though  cleverly  concealed. 

"I'm  glad  the  Khilkoffs  are  back  in  town,"  he  said 
easily.  "As  for  LeVallon — he's  been  quiet  and  uninter- 
esting all  the  morning.  He  needs  the  human  touch,  as 
I  already  said,  and  the  Studio  atmosphere,  especially  if 
the  Prometheans  are  to  be  there,  seems  the  very  thing." 

"And  Nayan ?" 

'Her  influence  is  good  for  any  man,  young  or  old,  and 


114  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

if  LeVallon  worships  at  her  shrine  like  the  rest  of  'em, 
so  much  the  better.  You  remember  my  Notes.  Nothing 
will  help  towards  his  finding  his  real  self  quicker  than 
an  abandoned  passion — unreturned." 

"Unreturned?" 

"You  can't  think  she  will  give  to  LeVallon  what  so 
many ?" 

"But  may  she  not,"  the  other  interrupted,  "stimulate 
'N.  H.'  rather  than  LeVallon?" 

Devonham  was  surprised — he  had  quickly  divined  the 
subconscious  fear  and  jealousy.  For  this  detached,  im- 
personal attitude  he  was  not  prepared.  Only  the  keenest 
observer  could  have  noticed  the  sharp,  anxious  watchful- 
ness he  hid  so  well. 

"Edward,  there's  only  one  thing  I  feel  we — you  rather 
— have  to  be  careful  about.  And  the  girl  has  nothing 
to  do  with  that.  In  your  blood,  remember,  lies  an  un- 
earthly spiritual  vagrancy  which  you  must  not,  dare  not, 
communicate  to  him,  if  you  ever  hope  to  see  him  cured." 

Devonham  regarded  him  keenly  as  he  said  it.  He 
was  as  earnest  as  his  chief,  but  the  difference  between 
the  two  men  was  fundamental,  probably  unbridgeable  as 
well.  The  affection,  trust,  respect  each  felt  for  the  other 
was  sincere.  Devonham,  however,  having  never  known 
a  thought,  a  feeling,  much  less  an  actual  experience,  out- 
side the  normal  gamut  of  humanity,  regarded  all  such  as 
pathogenic.  Fillery,  who  had  tasted  the  amazing,  dan- 
gerous sweetness  of  such  experiences,  in  his  own  being, 
had  another  standard. 

"You  must  not  exaggerate,"  observed  Fillery,  slowly. 
"Your  phrase,  though,  is  good.  'Spiritual  vagrancy'  is 
an  apt  description,  I  admit.  Yet  to  the  'spiritual,'  if  it 
exists,  the  whole  universe  lies  open,  remember,  too." 

They  laughed  together.  Then,  suddenly,  Devonham 
rose,  and  a  new  inexpressible  uneasiness  was  in  his  face. 
He  thrust  his  hands  deep  into  his  trouser  pockets,  turned 
his  eyes  hard  upon  the  floor,  stood  with  his  legs  apart. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  115 

Abruptly  turning,  he  came  a  full  step  closer.  "Edward," 
he  said,  furious  with  himself,  and  yet  fiercely  determined 
to  be  honest,  "I  may  as  well  tell  you  frankly — though 
explanation  lies  beyond  me — there's  something  in  this — 
this  case  I  don't  quite  like."  Behind  his  lowered  eyelids 
his  observation  never  failed. 

Quick  as  a  flash,  his  companion  took  him  up.  "For 
yourself,  for  others,  or  for  himself?"  he  asked,  while  a 
secret  touch  of  joy  ran  through  him. 

"For  myself  perhaps,"  was  the  immediate  rejoinder. 
"It's  intolerable.  It's  the  panic  sense  he  touches  in  me. 
I  admit  it  frankly.  I've  had — once  or  twice — the  desire 
to  turn  and  run.  But  what  I  mean  is — we've  got  to  be 
uncommonly  careful  with  him,"  he  ended  lamely. 

"LeVallon  you  refer  to?    Or  'N.  H.'?" 

"'N.  H/" 

"The  panic  sense,"  repeated  Fillery  to  himself  more 
than  to  his  friend.  "The  old,  old  thing.  I  understand." 

"Also,"  Devonham  went  on  presently,  "I  must  tell 
you  that  since  he  came  here  there's  been  a  change  in 
every  patient  in  the  building — without  exception."  He 
looked  over  his  shoulder  as  though  he  heard  a  sound. 
He  listened  certainly,  but  his  mind  was  sharply  centred 
on  his  friend. 

"For  the  better,  yes,"  said  Fillery  at  once.  "Increased 
vitality,  I've  noticed  too." 

"Precisely,"  whispered  the  other,  still  listening. 

There  came  a  pause  between  them. 

"And  when  we  have  found  the  real,  the  central  self," 
pursued  Fillery  presently.  "When  we  have  found  the 
essential  being — what  is  it?" 

"Exactly,"  replied  Devonham  with  extraordinary 
emphasis.  "What  is  it?"  But  even  then  he  did  not  look 
up  to  meet  the  other's  glance. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  meeting  with  Dr.  Fillery  and  his  friends,  the 
Khilkoffs,  father  and  daughter,  had,  for  one  reason 
or  another,  to  be  postponed  for  a  week,  during  which  brief 
time  even,  no  single  day  wasted,  LeVallon's  education 
proceeded  rapidly.  He  was  exceedingly  quick  to  learn 
the  usages  of  civilized  society  in  a  big  city,  adapting 
himself  with  an  ease  born  surely  of  quick  intelligence  to 
the  requirements  and  conventions  of  ordinary  life. 

In  his  perception  of  the  rights  of  others,  particularly, 
he  showed  a  natural  aptitude;  he  had  good  manners, 
that  is,  instinctively ;  in  certain  houses  where  Fillery  took 
him  purposely,  he  behaved  with  a  courtesy  and  tact  that 
belong  usually  to  what  England  calls  a  gentleman.  Ex- 
cept to  Fillery  and  Devonham,  he  talked  little,  but  was 
an  excellent  and  sympathetic  listener,  a  quality  that 
helped  him  to  make  his  way.  With  Mrs.  Soames,  the 
stern  and  even  forbidding  matron,  he  made  such  head- 
way, that  it  was  noticed  with  a  surprise,  including 
laughter.  He  might  have  been  her  adopted  son. 

"She's  got  a  new  pet,"  said  Devonham,  with  a  laugh. 
"Mason  taught  him  well.  His  aptitude  for  natural 
history  is  obvious;  after  a  few  years'  study  he'll  make  a 
name  for  himself.  The  'N.  H.'  side  will  disappear  now 
more  and  more,  unless  you  stimulate  it  for  your  own 

ends "    He  broke  off,  speaking  lightly  still,  but  with 

a  carelessness  some  might  have  guessed  assumed. 

"You  forget,"  put  in  his  Chief,  "I  promised." 

Devonham  looked  at  him  shrewdly.  "I  doubt,"  he 
said,  "whether  you  can  help  yourself,  Edward,"  the  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes  for  a  moment  almost  severe, 

116 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  117 

Fillery  remained  thoughtful,  making  no  immediate 
reply. 

"We  must  remember,"  he  said  presently,  "that  he's 
now  in  the  quiescent  state.  Nothing  has  again  occurred 
to  bring  'N.  H.'  uppermost  again." 

Devonham  turned  upon  his  friend.  "I  see  no  reason 
why  'N.  H.' " — he  spoke  with  emphasis — "should  ever 
get  uppermost  again.  In  my  opinion  we  can  make  this 
quiescent  state — LeVallon — the  permanent  one." 

"We  can't  keep  him  in  a  cage  like  Mrs.  Soames's 
mice  and  parrot.  Are  you,  for  instance,  against  my 
taking  him  to  the  Studio?  Do  you  think  it's  a  mistake 
to  let  him  meet  the  Prometheans?" 

"That's  just  where  Mason  went  wrong,"  returned 
Devonham.  "He  kept  him  in  a  cage.  The  boy  met  only 
a  few  peasants,  trees,  plants,  animals  and  birds.  The  sun, 
making  him  feel  happy,  became  his  deity.  The  rain  he 
hated.  The  wind  inspired  and  invigorated  him.  If  we 
now  introduce  the  human  element  wisely,  I  see  no  dan- 
ger. If  he  can  stand  the  Khi — the  Studio  and  the  Pro- 
metheans, he  can  stand  anything.  He  may  be  considered 
cured." 

The  door  opened  and  a  tall,  radiant  figure  with  bright 
eyes  and  untidy  shining  hair  came  into  the  room,  carrying 
an  open  book. 

"Mrs.  Soames  says  I've  nothing  to  do  with  stars," 
said  a  deep  musical  voice,  "and  that  I  had  better  stick  to 
animals  and  plants.  She  says  that  star-gazing  never 
was  good  for  anyone  except  astronomers  who  warn  us 
about  tides,  eclipses  and  dangerous  comets." 

He  held  out  the  big  book,  open  at  an  enlarged  stellar 
photograph.  "What,  please,  is  a  galaxy,  a  star  that  is 
suddenly  brilliant,  then  disappears  in  a  few  weeks,  and  a 
nebula?" 

Before  either  of  the  astonished  men  could  answer, 
LeVallon  turned  to  Devonham,  his  face  wearing  the 
gravity  and  intense  curiosity  of  a  child.  "And,  please, 


118  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

are  you  the  only  sort  of  being  in  the  universe?  Mrs. 
Soames  says  that  the  earth  is  the  only  inhabited  place. 
Aren't  there  other  beings  besides  you  anywhere?  The 
Earth  is  such  a  little  planet,  and  the  solar  system,  accord- 
ing to  this  book,  is  one  of  the  smallest  too." 

"My  dear  fellow,"  Devonham  said  gently,  "do  not 
bother  your  head  with  useless  speculations.  Our  only 
valuable  field  of  study  is  this  planet,  for  it  is  all  we  know 
or  ever  can  know.  Whether  the  universe  holds  other 
beings  or  not,  can  be  of  no  importance  to  us  at  present." 

LeVallon  stared  fixedly  at  him,  saying  nothing.  Some- 
thing of  his  natural  radiance  dimmed  a  little.  "Then  what 
are  all  these  things  that  I  remember  I've  forgotten?"  he 
asked,  his  blue  eyes  troubled. 

"It  will  take  you  all  your  lifetime  to  understand  beings 
like  me,  and  like  yourself  and  like  Dr.  Fillery.  Don't 
waste  time  speculating  about  possible  inhabitants  in 
other  stars." 

He  spoke  good-humouredly,  but  firmly,  as  one  who 
laid  down  certain  definite  lines  to  be  followed,  while  Dr. 
Fillery,  watching,  made  no  audible  comment.  Once  long 
ago  he  had  asked  his  own  father  a  somewhat  similar 
question. 

"But  I  shall  so  soon  get  to  the  end  of  you,"  replied 
LeVallon,  a  disappointed  expression  on  his  face.  "I  may 
speculate  then?"  he  asked. 

"When  you  get  to  the  end  of  me  and  of  yourself  and 
of  Dr.  Fillery — yes,  then  you  may  speculate  to  your 
heart's  content,"  said  Devonham  in  a  kindly  tone.  "But 
it  will  take  you  longer  than  you  think  perhaps.  Besides, 
there  are  women,  too,  remember.  You  will  find  them 
more  complicated  still." 

A  curious  look  stole  into  the  other's  eager  eyes.  He 
turned  suddenly  towards  the  older  man  who  had  his 
confidence  so  completely.  There  was  in  the  movement, 
in  the  incipient  gesture  that  he  made  with  his  arms,  his 
hands,  almost  with  his  head  and  face  as  well,  something 
of  appeal  that  set  the  doctor's  nerves  alert.  And  the 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  119 

change  of  voice — it  was  lower  now  and  more  musical 
than  before — increased  the  nameless  message  that  flashed 
to  his  brain  and  heart.  There  was  a  hint  of  song,  of 
chanting  almost,  in  the  tone.  There  was  music  in  him. 
For  the  voice,  Fillery  realized  suddenly,  brought  in  the 
over-tones,  somewhat  in  the  way  good  teachers  of  sing- 
ing and  voice  production  know.  There  was  the  depth, 
sonority,  singing  quality  which  means  that  the  "har- 
monics" are  made  audible,  as  with  a  violin  played  in 
perfect  tune.  The  sound  seemed  produced  not  by  the 
vocal  cords  alone,  but  by  the  entire  being,  so  to  speak. 
Yet,  "LeVallon's"  voice  had  not  this  rich  power,  he 
noticed.  Its  appearance  was  a  sign  that  "N.  H."  was 
stirring  into  activity  and  utterance. 

"Women,  yes,"  the  young  man  repeated  to  himself. 
"Women — bring  back  something.  Their  eyes  make  me 

remember "  he  turned  abruptly  to  the  open  book  upon 

the  doctor's  knee.  "It's  something  to  do  with  stars, 
these  memories,"  he  went  on  eagerly,  the  voice  resonant. 
"Stars,  women,  memories  .  .  .  where  are  they  all  gone 
to  .  .  .  ?  Why  have  I  lost  .  .  .  ?  What  is  it  that  .  .  .  ?" 

It  seemed  as  if  a  veil  passed  from  his  face,  a  thin 
transparency  that  dimmed  the  shining  effect  his  hair  and 
eyes  and  radiant  health  produced.  A  far-away  expression 
followed  it. 

"  'N.  H.'  !"  Devonham  quickly  flashed  the  whispered 
warning.  And  in  the  same  instant,  Fillery  rose,  holding 
out  the  open  book. 

"Come,  LeVallon,"  he  said,  putting  a  hand  upon  his 
shoulder,  "we'll  go  into  my  room  for  an  hour,  and  I'll 
tell  you  all  about  the  galaxies  and  nebulae.  You  shall 
as'-  as  many  questions  as  you  like.  Devonham  is  a  very 
busy  man  and  has  duties  to  attend  to  just  now."^ 

He  moved  across  to  open  the  door,  and  LeVallon,  his 
face  changing  more  and  more,  went  with  him ;  the  light 
in  his  eyes  increased ;  he  smiled,  the  far-away  expression 
passed  a  little. 

"Dr.  Devonham  is  quite  right  in  what  he  says  about 


120  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

useless  speculations,"  continued  Fillery,  as  they  went  out 
arm  in  arm  together,  "but  we  can  play  a  bit  with  thought 
and  imagination,  for  all  that — you  and  I.  'Let  your 
thought  wander  like  an  insect  which  is  allowed  to  fly  in 
the  air,  but  is  at  the  same  time  confined  by  a  thread.' 
Come  along,  we'll  have  an  hour's  play.  We'll  travel 
together  among  the  golden  stars,  eh?" 

"Play!"  exclaimed  the  youth,  looking  up  with  flash- 
ing eyes.  "Ah!  in  the  Spring  we  play!  Our  work  with 
sap,  roots,  crystals,  fire,  all  finished  out  of  sight,  so  that 
their  results  followed  of  their  own  accord."  He  was 
talking  at  great  speed  in  a  low  voice,  a  deep,  rolling 
voice,  and  half  to  himself.  "Spring  is  our  holiday,  the 
forms  made  perfect  and  ready  for  the  power  to  rush 
through,  and  we  rush  with  it,  playing  everywhere " 

"Spring  is  the  wine  of  life,  yes,"  put  in  Fillery,  caught 
away  momentarily  by  something  behind  the  words  he 
listened  to,  as  though  a  rhythm  swept  him.  "Creative 
life  racing  up  and  flooding  into  every  form  and  body 
everywhere.  It  brings  wonder,  joy — play,  as  you  call  it." 

"We — we  build  the  way "  The  youth  broke  off 

abruptly  as  they  reached  the  study  door.  Something 
flowed  down  and  back  in  him,  emptying  face  and  manner 
of  a  mood  which  had  striven  for  utterance,  then  passed. 
He  returned  to  the  previous  talk  about  the  stars  again: 

"Who  attends  to  them?  Who  looks  after  them?"  he 
inquired,  a  deep,  peculiar  interest  in  his  manner,  his  eyes 
turning  a  little  darker. 

"What  we  call  the  laws  of  Nature,"  was  the  reply, 
"which  are,  after  all,  merely  our  'descriptive  formulae 
summing  up  certain  regularities  of  recurrence/  the  laws 
under  which  they  were  first  set  alight  and  then  sent 
whirling  into  space.  Under  these  same  laws  they  will 
all  eventually  burn  out  and  come  to  rest.  They  will  be 
dead." 

"Dead,"  repeated  the  other,  as  though  he  did  not 
understand.  "They  are  the  children  of  the  laws,"  he 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  121 

stated,  rather  than  asked.  "Are  the  laws  kind  and  faith- 
ful? They  never  tire?" 

Fillery  explained  with  one-half  of  his  nature,  and  still 
as  to  a  child.  The  other  half  of  him  lay  under  firm 
restraint  according  to  his  promise.  He  outlined  in  gen- 
eral terms  man's  knowledge  of  the  stars.  "The  laws 
never  tire,"  he  said. 

"But  the  stars  end!  They  burn  out,  stop,  arid  die! 
You  said  so." 

The  other  replied  with  something  judicious  and 
cautious  about  time  and  its  immense  duration.  But  he 
was  startled. 

"And  those  who  attend  to  the  laws,"  came  then  the 
words  that  startled  him,  "who  keeps  them  working  so 
that  they  do  not  tire  ?" 

It  was  something  in  the  tone  of  voice  perhaps  that, 
once  again,  produced  in  his  listener  the  extraordinary 
sudden  feeling  that  Humanity  was,  after  all,  but  an  in- 
significant, a  microscopic  detail  in  the  Universe;  that  it 
was,  say,  a  mere  ant-heap  in  the  colossal  jungle  crowded 
with  other  minuter  as  well  as  immenser  life  of  every  sort 
and  kind,  and,  moreover,  that  "N.  H."  was  aware  of 
this  "other  life,"  or  at  least  of  some  vast  section  of  it, 
and  had  been,  if  he  were  not  still,  associated  with  it. 
The  two  letters  by  which  he  was  designated  acquired  a 
deeper  meaning  than  before. 

A  rich  glow  came  into  the  young  face,  and  into  the 
eyes,  growing  ever  darker,  a  look  of  burning;  the  skin 
had  the  effect  of  radiating;  the  breathing  became  of  a 
sudden  deep  and  rhythmical.  The  whole  figure  seemed 
to  grow  larger,  expanding  as  though  it  extended  already 
and  half  filled  the  room.  Into  the  atmosphere  about  it 
poured,  as  though  heat  and  light  rushed  through  it,  a 
strange  effect  of  power. 

"You'd  like  to  visit  them,  perhaps — wouldn't  you?" 
asked  Fillery  gently. 

"I  feel "  began  the  other,  then  stopped  short. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"You  feel  it  would  interest  you,"  the  doctor  helped — 
then  saw  his  mistake. 

"I  feel,"  repeated  the  youth.  The  sentence  was  com- 
plete. "I  am  there." 

"Ah !  when  you  feel  you're  there,  you  are  there  ?" 

The  other  nodded. 

He  leaned  forward.  "/  know,"  he  whispered  as  with 
sudden  joy.  "You  help  me  to  remember,  Fillery."  The 
voice,  though  whispering,  was  strong;  it  vibrated  full  of 
over-tones  and  under-tones.  The  sound  of  the  "F"  was 
like  a  wind  in  branches.  "You  wonderful,  you  know  too ! 
It  is  the  same  with  flowers,  with  everything.  We  build 
with  wind  and  fire."  He  stopped,  rubbing  a  hand  across 
his  forehead  a  moment.  "Wind  and  fire,"  he  went  on, 
but  this  time  to  himself,  "my  splendid  mighty  ones.  .  .  ." 
Dropping  his  hand,  he  flashed  an  amazing  look  of  en- 
thusiasm and  power  into  his  companion's  face.  The 
look  held  in  concentrated  form  something  of  the  power 
that  seemed  pulsing  and  throbbing  in  his  atmosphere. 
"Help  me  to  remember,  dear  Fillery,"  his  voice  rang  out 
aloud  like  singing.  "Remember  with  me  why  we  both 
are  here.  When  we  remember  we  can  go  back  where 
we  belong." 

The  glow  went  from  his  face  and  eyes  as  though  an 
inner  lamp  had  been  suddenly  extinguished.  The  power 
left  both  voice  and  atmosphere.  He  sank  back  in  his 
chair,  his  great  sensitive  hands  spread  over  the  table 
where  the  star  charts  lay,  as  through  the.  open  window 
came  the  crash  and  clatter  of  an  aeroplane  tearing,  like 
some  violent,  monstrous  insect,  through  the  sunlight. 

A  look  of  pain  came  into  his  eyes.  "It  goes  again. 
I've  lost  it." 

"We  were  talking  about  the  stars  and  the  laws  of 
Nature,"  said  Fillery  quickly,  though  his  voice  was  shak- 
ing, "when  that  noisy  flying-machine  disturbed  us."  He 
leaned  over,  taking  his  companion's  hand.  His  heart  was 
beating.  He  smelt  the  open  spaces.  The  blood  ran  wildly 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  123 

in  his  veins.  It  was  with  the  utmost  difficulty  he 
found  simple,  common  words  to  use.  "You  must  not 
ask  too  much  at  once.  We  will  learn  slowly — there  is 
so  much  we  have  to  learn  together." 

LeVallon's  smile  was  beautiful,  but  it  was  the  smile 
of  "LeVallon"  again  only. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Fillery,"  he  replied,  and  the  talk 
continued  as  between  a  tutor  and  his  backward  pupil. 
.  .  .  But  for  some  time  afterwards  the  "tutor's"  mind  and 
heart,  while  attending  to  LeVallon  now,  went  travelling, 
it  seemed,  with  "N.  H."  There  was  this  strange  division 
in  his  being  .  .  .  for  "N.  H."  appealed  with  power  to  a 
part  of  him,  perhaps  the  greatest,  that  had  never  yet 
found  expression,  much  less  satisfaction. 

Many  a  talk  together  of  this  kind,  with  occasional 
semi-irruptions  of  "N.  H.,"  he  had  already  enjoyed  with 
his  new  patient,  and  LeVallon  was  by  now  fairly  well 
instructed  in  the  general  histo'ry  of  our  little  world, 
briefly  but  picturesquely  given.  Evolution  had  been  out- 
lined and  explained,  the  rise  of  man  sketched  vividly,  the 
great  war,  and  the  planet's  present  state  of  chaos  de- 
scribed in  a  way  that  furnished  a  clear  enough  synopsis 
of  where  humanity  now  stood.  LeVallon  was  able  to 
hold  his  own  in  conversation  with  others;  he  might  pass 
for  a  simple-minded  but  not  ill-informed  young  man,  and 
both  Paul  Devonham  and  Edward  Fillery,  though  each 
for  different  reasons,  were,  therefore,  well  satisfied  with 
the  young  human  being  entrusted  to  their  care,  a  human 
being  to  be  eventually  discharged  from  the  Home,  healed 
and  cured  of  extravagances,  made  harmonious  with  him- 
self, able  to  make  his  own  way  in  the  world  alone.  To 
Devonham  it  appeared  already  certain  that,  withm  a  rea- 
sonable time,  LeVallon  would  find  himself  happily  at 
home  among  his  fellow  kind,  a  normal,  even  a  gifted 
young  man  with  a  future  before  him.  "N.  H."  would 
disappear  and  be  forgotten,  absorbed  back  into  the 
parent  Self.  To  his  colleague,  on  the  other  hand,  another 


124  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

vision  of  his  future  opened.  Sooner  or  later  it  was 
LeVallon  that  would  disappear  and  "N.  H."  remain  in 
full  control,  a  strange,  possibly  a  new  type  of  being,  not 
alone  marvellously  gifted,  but  who  might  even  throw 
light  upon  a  vista  of  research  and  knowledge  hitherto 
unknown  to  humanity,  and  with  benefits  for  the  Race  as 
yet  beyond  the  reach  of  any  wildest  prophecy. 

Both  men,  therefore,  went  gladly  with  him  to  the 
Khilkoff  Studio  that  early  November  afternoon,  anxious 
to  observe  him,  his  conduct,  attitude,  among  the  curious 
set  of  people  to  be  found  there  on  the  Prometheans' 
Society  day,  and  to  note  any  reactions  he  might  show 
in  such  a  milieu.  Each  felt  fully  justified  in  doing  so, 
though  they  would  have  kept  an  ordinary  "hysterical" 
patient  safely  from  the  place.  LeVallon,  however,  be- 
trayed no  trace  of  hysteria  in  any  meaning  of  the  word, 
big  or  little ;  he  was  stable  as  a  navvy,  betraying  no  un- 
desirable reaction  to  the  various  well-known  danger 
points.  The  visit  might  be  something  of  an  experiment 
perhaps,  but  an  experiment,  a  test,  they  were  justified 
in  taking.  Yet  Devonham  on  no  account  would  have 
allowed  his  chief  to  go  alone.  He  had  insisted  on  accom- 
panying ^hem. 

And  to  both  men,  as  they  went  towards  Chelsea,  their 
quiet  companion  with  them,  came  the  feeling  that  the 
visit  might  possibly  prove  one  of  them  right,  the  other 
wrong.  Fillery  expected  that  Nayan  Khilkoff  alone,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  effect  of  the  other  queer  folk  who 
might  be  present,  must  surely  evoke  the  "N.  H."  person- 
ality now  lying  quiescent  and  inactive  below  the  thresh- 
old of  LeVallon.  The  charm  and  beauty  of  the  girl  he 
had  never  known  to  fail  with  any  male,  for  she  Rad  that 
in  her  which  was  bound  to  stimulate  the  highest  in  the 
opposite  sex.  The  excitement  of  the  wild,  questing,  pic- 
turesque, if  unbalanced,  minds  who  would  fill  the  place, 
must  also,  though  in  quite  another  way,  affect  the  real 
self  of  anyone  who  came  in  contact  with  their  fantastic 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  125 

and  imaginative  atmosphere.  Attraction  or  repulsion 
must  certainly  be  felt.  He  expected  at  any  rate  a  vital 
clue. 

"Ivan  Khilkoff,"  he  told  LeVallon,  as  they  went  along 
in  the  car,  "is  a  Russian,  a  painter  and  sculptor  of  talent, 
a  good-hearted  and  silent  sort  of  old  fellow,  who  has 
remained  very  poor  because  he  refuses  to  advertise  him- 
self or  commercialize  his  art,  and  because  his  work  is 
not  the  kind  of  thing  the  English  buy.  His  daughter, 
Nayan,  teaches  the  piano  and  Russian.  She  is  beautiful 
and  sweet  and  pure,  but  of  an  independent  and  rather 
impersonal  character.  She  has  never  fallen  in  love,  for 
instance,  though  most  men  fall  in  love  with  her.  I  hope 
you  may  like  and  understand  each  other." 

"Thank  you,"  said  LeVallon,  listening  attentively,  but 
with  no  great  interest  apparently.  "I  will  try  very  much 
to  like  her  and  her  father  too." 

"The  Studio  is  a  very  big  one,  it  is  really  two  studios 
knocked  into  one,  their  living  rooms  opening  out  of  it. 
One  half  of  the  place,  being  so  large,  they  sometimes  let 
out  for  meetings,  dances  and  that  sort  of  thing,  earning 
a  little  money  in  that  way.  It  is  rented  this  evening  by  a 
Society  called  the  Prometheans — a  group  of  people  whose 
inquisitive  temperaments  lead  them  to  believe,  or  half 
believe " 

"To  imagine,  if  not  deliberately  to  manufacture,"  put 
in  Devonham. 

" to  imagine,  let  us  call  it,"  continued  the  other  with 

a  twinkle,  "that  there  are  other  worlds,  other  powers,  other 
states  of  consciousness  and  knowledge  open  to  them  out- 
side and  beyond  the  present  ones  we  are  familiar  with." 

"They  know  these?"  asked  LeVallon,  looking  up  with 
signs  of  interest.  "They  have  experienced  them?" 

"They  know  and  experience,"  replied  Fillery,  "accord- 
ing to  their  imaginations  and  desires,  those  with  a  touch 
of  creative  imagination  claiming  the  most  definite  results, 
those  without  it  being  merely  imitative.  They  report  their 


126  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

experiences,  that  is,  but  cannot — or  rarely  show  tne  results 
to  others.  You  will  hear  their  talk  and  judge  accordingly. 
They  are  interesting  enough  in  their  way.  They  have,  at 
any  rate,  one  thing  of  value — that  they  are  open  to  new 
ideas.  Such  people  have  existed  in  every  age  of  the  world's 
history,  but  after  an  upheaval,  such  as  the  great  war  has 
been,  they  become  more  active  and  more  numerous,  because 
the  nervous  system,  reacting  from  a  tremendous  strain, 
produces  exaggeration.  Any  world  is  better  than  an  un- 
comfortable one  in  revolution,  they  think.  They  are,  as 
a  rule,  sincere  and  honest  folk.  They  add  a  touch  of 
colour  to  the  commonplace " 

"Tuppence  coloured,"  murmured  Devonham  below  his 
breath, 

"And  they  believe  so  much  in  other  worlds  to  conquer, 
other  regions,  bigger  states  of  consciousness,  other  powers," 
concluded  Fillery,  ignoring  the  interruption,  "that  they  are 
half  in  this  world,  half  in  the  next.  Hence  Dr.  Devonham's 
name,  the  name  by  which  he  sometimes  laughs  at  them — of 
Half  Breeds." 

LeVallon's  eyes,  he  saw,  were  very  big;  his  interest  and 
attention  were  excited. 

"The;*  wiM  probably  welcome  you  with  open  arms,"  he 
added,  "if  you  care  to  join  them.  They  consider  them- 
selves pioneers  of  a  larger  life.  They  are  not  mere 
spiritualists — oh  no !  They  are  familiar  with  all  the  newest 
theories,  and  realize  that  an  alternative  hypothesis  can  ex- 
plain all  so-called  psychic  phenomena  without  dragging 
spirits  in.  It  is  in  exaggerating  results  they  go  mostly 
wrong." 

"Eccentrics,"  Devonham  remarked,  "out  of  the  circle, 
and  hysterical  to  a  man.  They  accomplish  nothing.  They 
are  invariably  dreamers,  usually  of  doubtful  morals  and 
honesty,  and  always  unworthy  of  serious  attention.  But 
they  may  amuse  you  for  an  hour." 

"We  all  find  it  difficult  to  believe  what  we  have  never 
experienced,"  mentioned  Fillery,  turning  to  his  colleague 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  127 

with  a  hearty  laugh,  in  which  the  latter  readily  joined,  for 
their  skirmishes  usually  brought  in  laughter  at  the  end. 
Just  now,  moreover,  they  were  talking  with  a  purpose,  and 
it  was  wise  and  good  that  LeVallon  should  listen  and  take 
in  what  he  could — hearing  both  sides.  He  watched  and 
listened  certainly  with  open  eyes  and  ears,  as  he  sat  be- 
tween them  on  the  wide  front  seat,  but  saying,  as  usual, 
very  little. 

The  car  turned  down  a  narrow  lane  with  slackening  speed 
and  slowed  up  before  a  dingy  building  with  faded  Virginia 
creepers  sprawling  about  stained  dirty  walls.  The  neigh- 
bourhood was  depressing,  patched  and  dishevelled,  and 
almost  bordering  on  a  slum.  The  November  light  was 
passing  into  early  twilight. 

"You,"  said  LeVallon  abruptly,  turning  round  and  star- 
ing at  Devonham,  "make  everything  seem  unreal  to  me. 
I  do  not  understand  you.  You  know  so  much.  Why  is  so 
little  real  to  you  ?" 

But  Devonham,  in  the  act  of  getting  out  of  the  car,  made 
no  reply,  and  probably  had  not  heard  the  words,  or,  if  he 
had  heard,  thought  them  more  suitable  for  Fillery. 


CHAPTER  XII 

Prometheans  were  evidently  in  full  attendance; 
possibly  the  rumour  had  reached  them  that  Dr.  Fillery 
was  coming.  No  one  announced  the  latter's  arrival,  there 
was  no  servant  visible;  the  party  hung  up  their  hats  and 
coats  in  a  passage,  then  walked  into  the  lofty,  dim-lit  studio 
which  was  already  filled  with  people  and  the  hum  of  many 
voices. 

At  once,  standing  in  a  hesitating  group  beside  the  door, 
they  were  observed  by  everyone  in  the  room.  All  asked, 
it  seemed,  "Who  is  this  stranger  they  have  brought?" 
Fillery  caught  the  curious  atmosphere  in  that  first  moment, 
an  instant  whiff,  as  it  were,  of  excitement,  interest,  some- 
thing picturesque,  if  possibly  foolish,  fantastic,  too,  yet 
faintly  stimulating,  breathing  along  his  extremely  sensitive 
nerves. 

He  glanced  at  his  companions.  Devonham,  it  struck  him, 
looked  more  than  ever  like  a  floor-walker  come  to  supervise, 
say,  a  Department  where  the  sales  and  assistants  were  not 
satisfactory  or — he  laughed  inwardly  as  the  simile  occurred 
to  him — a  free-thinker  entering  a  church  whose  teaching 
he  disapproved,  even  despised,  and  whose  congregation 
touched  his  contemptuous  pity.  "Who  would  ever  guess," 
thought  his  friend  and  colleague,  "the  sincerity  and  depth 
of  knowledge  in  that  insignificant  appearance?  Paul  hides 
his  value  well !"  He  noticed,  in  his  quick  fashion,  touched 
by  humour,  the  hard  challenging  eyes,  the  aquiline  nose  on 
which  a  pair  of  pince-nez  balanced  uneasily,  the  narrow 
shoulders,  the  poorly  fitting  clothes.  The  heart,  of  course, 
remained  invisible.  Yet  suddenly  he  felt  glad  that  Devon- 
ham  was  with  him.  "Nothing  unstable  there,"  he  reflected, 

128 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  129 

"and  stability  combined  with  competence  is  rare."  This 
rapid  judgment,  it  occurred  to  him,  was  possibly  a  warning 
from  his  own  subconscious  being.  ...  A  red  flag  signalled, 
flickered,  vanished. 

He  glanced  next  at  LeVallon,  towering  above  the  other. 
LeVallon  was  now  well  dressed  in  London  clothes  that 
suited  him,  though,  for  that  matter,  any  clothes  must  have 
looked  well  upon  a  male  figure  so  virile  and  upstanding. 
His  great  shoulders,  his  leanness,  covered  so  beautifully 
with  muscle,  his  height,  his  colouring,  his  radiant  air ;  above 
all,  his  strange,  big  penetrating  eyes,  marked  him  as  a  figure 
one  would  notice  anywhere.  He  stood,  somehow,  alone, 
apart,  though  the  ingredients  that  contributed  to  this  strange 
air  of  aloofness  would  be  hard  to  define. 

It  was  chiefly,  perhaps,  the  poise  of  the  great  powerful 
frame  that  helped  towards  this  odd  setting  in  isolation  and 
independence.  Motionless,  he  gazed  about  him  quietly,  but 
it  was  the  way  he  stood  that  singled  him  out  from  other 
men.  Even  in  his  stillness  there  was  grace;  neither  hands 
nor  feet,  though  it  was  difficult  to  describe  exactly  how  he 
placed  them  or  used  them,  were  separate  from  this  poise 
of  perfect  balance.  To  put  it  colloquially,  he  knew  what 
to  do  with  his  extremities.  Self-consciousness,  in  sight  of 
this  ardent  throng,  the  first  he  had  encountered  at  close, 
intimate  quarters,  was  entirely  absent. 

This  Fillery  noticed  instantly,  but  other  impressions 
followed  during  the  few  brief  seconds  while  they  waited 
by  the  door;  and  first,  the  odd  effect  of  tremendous  power 
he  managed  to  convey.  Nothing  could  have  been  less 
aggressive  than  the  tentative,  questioning,  half  inquiring, 
half  wondering  attitude  in  which  he  stood,  waiting  to  be 
introduced  to  the  buzzing  throng  of  humans ;  yet  there  hung 
about  him  like  an  atmosphere  this  potential  strength,  of 
confidence,  of  superiority,  even  of  beauty  too,  that  not  only 
contributed  much  to  the  aloofness  already  mentioned,  but 
also  contrived  to  make  the  others,  men  and  women,  in  the 
crowded  room — insignificant.  Somehow  they  seemed  pale 


130  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

and  ineffective  against  a  larger  grandeur,  a  scale  entirely 
beyond  their  reach. 

"Gigantic"  was  the  word  that  leaped  into  the  mind,  but 
another  perhaps  leaped  with  it — "elemental." 

Fillery  was  aware  of  envy,  oddly  enough,  of  pride  as 
well.  His  heart  warmed  more  than  ever  to  him.  Almost, 
he  could  have  then  and  there  recalled  his  promise  given 
to  Devonham,  cancelling  it  contemptuously  with  a  word  of 
self-apology  for  his  smallness  and  his  lack  of  faith.  .  .  . 

LeVallon,  aware  of  a  sympathetic  mind  occupied  closely 
with  himself,  turned  in  that  moment,  and  their  eyes  met 
squarely;  a  smile  of  deep,  inner  understanding  passed 
swiftly  between  them  over  Devonham's  head  and  shoulders. 
In  which  moment,  exactly,  a  short,  bearded  man,  detaching 
himself  from  the  crowd,  came  forward  and  greeted  them 
with  sincere  pleasure  in  his  voice  and  manner.  He  was 
broad-shouldered,  lean,  his  clothes  hung  loosely;  his  glance 
was  keen  but  kindly.  Introductions  followed,  and  KhilkofFs 
sharp  eye  rested  for  some  seconds  with  unconcealed  admira- 
tion upon  LeVallon,  as  he  held  his  hand.  His  discerning 
sculptor's  glance  seemed  to  appraise  his  stature  and  propor- 
tions, while  he  bade  him  welcome  to  the  Studio.  His  big 
head  and  short  neck,  his  mane  of  hair,  the  width  of  his 
face,  with  its  squat  nose  and  high  cheek-bones,  the  half 
ferocious  eyes,  the  heavy  jaw  and  something  sprawling 
about  the  mouth,  gave  him  a  leonine  expression.  And 
his  voice  was  not  unlike  a  deep-toned  growl,  for  all  its 
,cordiality. 

A  stir,  meanwhile,  ran  through  the  room,  more  heads 
turned  in  their  direction ;  they  had  long  ago  been  observed,; 
they  were  being  now  examined. 

"Nayan,"  Khilkoff  was  saying,  while  he  still  held  Le- 
Vallon's  hand  as  though  its  size  and  grip  contented  him, 
"had  a  late  Russian  lesson.  She  will  be  here  shortly,  and 
very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance,"  looking  up  at  Le- 
Vallon, as  the  new-comer.  His  gruffness  and  brevity  had 
something  pleasing  in  them.  "To-day  the  Studio  is  not 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  131 

entirely  mine,"  he  explained.  "I  want  you  to  come  when 
I'm  alone.  Some  studies  I  made  in  Sark  this  summer  may 
interest  you."  He  turned  to  Fillery.  "That  lonely  place 
was  good  for  both  of  us,"  he  said;  "it  gave  me  new  life 
and  inspiration,  and  Nayan  benefited  immensely  too.  She 
looks  more  like  a  nymph  than  ever." 

He  shook  hands  with  Devonham,  smiling  more  grimly. 
"I'm  surprised  you,  too,  have  honoured  us,"  he  exclaimed 
with  genuine  surprise.  "Come  to  damn  them  all  as  usual, 
probably!  Good!  Your  common-sense  and  healthy  criti- 
cism are  needed  in  these  days — cool,  cleaning  winds  in  an 
over-heated  conservatory."  He  broke  off  abruptly  and 
looked  down  at  LeVallon's  hand  he  was  still  holding.  He 
examined  it  for  a  second  with  care  and  admiration,  then 
turned  his  eye  upon  the  young  man's  figure.  He  grunted. 

"When  I  know  you  better,"  he  said,  with  a  growl  of 
earnest  meaning,  "I  shall  ask  a  favour,  a  great  favour,  of 
you.  So,  beware!" 

"Thank  you,"  replied  LeVallon,  and  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice  the  sculptor's  interest  deepened.  A  gleam  shone  in 
his  eye. 

"You've  begun  some  work,"  said  Fillery,  "and  models 
are  hard  to  come  by,  I  imagine."  His  eye  never  left  Le- 
Vallon. 

Khilkoff  chuckled.  "Thought-reader!"  he  exclaimed. 
"If  Povey  heard  that,  he'd  make  you  join  the  Society  at 
once — as  honorary  member  or  vice-president.  Anything  to 
get  you  in.  Dr.  Fillery  understands  us  all  too  well,"  he 
went  on  to  LeVallon.  "In  Sark,  that  lonely  island  in  the 
sea,  I  began  four  figures — four  elemental  figures — of  earth, 
air,  fire  and  water — a  group,  of  course.  The  air  figure, 
I've  done " 

"With  Nayan  as  model,"  suggested  Fillery,  smiling. 

"One  morning,  yes,  I  caught  her  bathing  from  a  rock, 
hair  streaming  in  the  wind,  no  clothes  on,  white  foam  from 
the  big  breakers  fluttering  about  her,  slim,  shining,  uncon- 
scious and  half  dancing,  fierce  sunlight  all  over  her.  Ah" 


132  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

— he  broke  off — "here's  Povey  coming.  I  mustn't  monopo- 
lize you  all.  Devonham,  you  know  most  of  'em.  Make 
yourselves  at  home."  He  turned  to  LeVallon  again,  with 
a  touch  of  something  gentler,  almost  of  respect,  thought 
Fillery,  as  he  noticed  the  delicate  change  of  voice  and 
manner  quickly.  "Come,  Mr.  LeVallon,"  he  said  courteously, 
"I  should  like  to  show  you  the  figure  as  I've  done  it.  We'll 
go  for  a  moment  into  my  own  private  rooms.  But  it's  a 
model  for  fire  I'm  looking  for,  as  Fillery  guessed.  You 
may  be  interested."  He  led  him  off.  LeVallon  went  with 
evident  content,  and  the  advance  of  skirmishes  that  were 
already  approaching  for  introductions  was  temporarily 
defeated. 

For  the  three  men  standing  by  the  door  had  formed  a 
noticeable  group,  and  Khilkoff's  presence  added  to  their 
value.  Dr.  Fillery,  known  and  much  respected,  regarded 
with  a  touch  of  awe  by  many,  had  not  come  for  nothing, 
it  was  doubtless  argued;  his  colleague,  moreover,  accom- 
panied him,  and  he,  too,  was  known  to  the  Society,  though 
not  much  cultivated  by  its  members  owing  to  his  down- 
right, critical  way  of  talking.  They  deemed  him  prejudiced, 
unsympathetic.  It  was  the  third  member  of  the  group, 
LeVallon,  who  had  quickly  caught  all  eyes,  and  the  atten- 
tion immediately  paid  to  him  by  their  host  set  the  value 
of  a  special  and  important  guest  upon  him  instantly.  All 
watched  him  led  away  by  Khilkoff  to  the  private  quarters 
of  the  Studio,  where  none  at  first  presumed  to  follow  them ; 
but  it  was  the  eyes  of  the  women  that  remained  glued  to 
the  open  door  where  they  had  disappeared,  waiting  with 
careful  interest  for  their  reappearance.  In  particular  Lady 
Gleeson,  the  "pretty  Lady  Gleeson,"  watched  from  the 
corner  where  she  sat  alone,  sipping  some  refreshment. 

Fillery  and  Devonham,  having  observed  the  signs  about 
them,  exchanged  a  glance ;  their  charge  was  safe  for  the 
moment,  at  any  rate ;  they  felt  relieved ;  yet  it  was  for  the 
entry  of  Nayan,  the  daughter,  that  both  waited  with  interest 
and  impatience,  as,  meanwhile,  the  bolder  ones  among  the 
crowd  came  up  one  by  one  and  captured  them. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  133 

"Oh,  Dr.  Fillery,  I  am  glad  to  see  you  here.  I  thought 
you  were  always  too  busy  for  unscientific  people  like  us. 
Yet,  in  a  way,  we're  all  seekers,  are  we  not?  I've  been 
reading  your  Physiology  book,  and  I  did  so  want  to  ask 
you  about  something  in  it.  I  wonder  if  you'd  mind." 

He  shook  hands  with  a  young-old  woman,  wearing  bobbed 
hair  and  glasses,  and  speaking  with  an  intense,  respectful, 
yet  self-apologetic  manner. 

"You've  forgotten  me,  but  I  quite  understand.  You  see 
so  many  people.  I'm  Miss  Lance.  I  sent  you  my  little 
magazine,  'Simplicity,'  once,  and  you  acknowledged  it  so 
sweetly,  though,  of  course,  I  understood  you  had  not  the 
time  to  write  for  it."  She  continued  for  several  minutes, 
smiling  up  at  him,  her  hands  clasping  and  unclasping  them- 
selves behind  a  back  clothed  with  some  glittering  coloured 
material  that  rather  fascinated  him  by  its  sheen.  She  kept 
raising  herself  on  her  toes  and  sinking  back  again  in  a 
series  of  jerky  rhythms. 

He  gave  her  his  delightful  smile. 

"Oh,  Dr.  Fillery!"  she  exclaimed,  with  pleasure,  leading 
him  to  a  divan,  upon  which  he  let  himself  down  in  such  a 
position  that  he  could  observe  the  door  from  the  street  as 
well  as  the  door  where  LeVallon  had  disappeared.  "This 
is  really  too  good-natured  of  you.  Your  book  set  me  on 
fire  simply" — her  eyes  wandering  to  the  other  door — "and 
what  a  wonderful  looking  person  you've  brought  with 
you " 

"I  fear  it's  not  very  easy  reading,"  he  interposed  patiently. 

"To  me  it  was  too  delightful  for  words,"  she  rattled  on, 
pleased  by  the  compliment  implied.  "I  devour  all  your  books 
and  always  review  them  myself  in  the  magazine.  I  wouldn't 
trust  them  to  anyone  else.  I  simply  can't  tell  you  how 
physiology  stimulates  me.  Humanity  needs  imaginative  books, 
especially  just  now."  She  broke  off  with  a  deprecatory 
smile.  "I  do  what  I  can,"  she  added,  as  he  made  no  remark, 
"to  make  them  known,  though  in  such  a  very  small  way, 
I  fear."  Her  interest,  however,  was  divided,  the  two  power- 
ful attractions  making  her  quite  incoherent.  "Your  friend," 


134  THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

she  ventured  again,  "he  must  be  Eastern  perhaps?  Or  is 
that  merely  sunburn?  He  looks  most  unusual." 

"Sunburn  merely,  Miss  Lance.  You  must  have  a  chat 
with  him  later." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  Dr.  Fillery.  I  do  so  love 
unusual  people.  .  .  ." 

He  listened  gravely.  He  was  gentle,  while  she  confided 
to  him  her  little  inner  hopes  and  dreams  about  the  "simple 
life."  She  introduced  adjectives  she  believed  would  sound 
correct,  if  spoken  very  quickly,  until,  between  the  torrent 
of  "psychical,"  "physiological"  and  once  or  twice,  "psycho- 
logical," she  became  positively  incoherent  in  a  final  entangle- 
ment from  which  there  was  no  issue  but  a  convulsive  ges- 
ture. None  the  less,  she  was  bathed  in  bliss.  She  monopo- 
lized the  great  man  for  a  whole  ten  minutes  on  a  divan 
where  everybody  could  see  that  they  talked  earnestly, 
intimately,  perhaps  even  intellectually,  together  side  by  side. 

He  observed  the  room,  meanwhile,  without  her  noticing 
it,  scanning  the  buzzing  throng  with  interest.  There  was 
confusion  somewhere,  something  was  lacking,  no  system 
prevailed;  he  was  aware  of  a  general  sense  of  waiting  for 
a  leader.  All  looked,  he  knew,  for  Nayan  to  appear.  With- 
out her  presence,  there  was  no  centre,  for,  though  not  a 
member  of  the  Society  herself,  she  was  the  heart  always 
of  their  gatherings,  without  which  they  straggled  somewhat 
aimlessly.  And  "heart,"  he  remembered,  with  a  smile  that 
Miss  Lance  took  proudly  for  herself,  was  the  appropriate 
word.  Nayan  mothered  them.  They  were  but  children, 
after  all.  .  .  . 

"When  you  talk  of  a  'New  Age,'  what  exactly  do  you 
mean?  I  wish  you'd  define  the  term  for  me,"  Devonham 
meanwhile  was  saying  to  an  interlocutor,  not  far  away, 
while  with  a  corner  of  his  eye  he  watched  both  Fillery  and 
the  private  door.  He  still  stood  near  the  entrance,  looking 
more  than  ever  like  a  disapproving  floor-walker  in  a  big 
department  store,  and  it  was  with  H.  Millington  Povey 
that  he  talked,  the  Honorary  Secretary  of  the  Society.  The 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  135 

Secretary  had  aimed  at  Fillery,  but  Miss  Lance  had  been 
too  quick  for  him.  He  was  obliged  to  put  up  with  Devon- 
ham  as  second  best,  and  his  temper  suffered  accordingly. 
He  was  in  aggressive  mood. 

Povey,  facing  him,  was  talking  with  almost  violent  zeal. 
A  small,  thin,  nervous  man,  on  the  verge  of  middle  age, 
his  head  prematurely  bald,  with  wildish  tufts  of  patchy  hair, 
a  thin,  scraggy  neck  that  he  lengthened  and  shortened  be- 
tween high  hunched  shoulders,  Povey  resembled  an  eager 
vulture.  His  keen  bright  eyes,  hooked  nose,  and  a  habit 
of  twisting  head  and  neck  apart  from  his  body,  which 
held  motionless,  increased  this  likeness  to  a  bird  of  prey. 
Possessed  of  considerable  powers  of  organization,  he  kept 
the  Society  together.  It  was  he  who  insisted  upon  some 
special  "psychic  gift"  as  a  qualification  of  membership;  an 
applicant  must  prove  this  gift  to  a  committee  of  Povey's 
choosing,  though  these  proofs  were  never  circulated  for 
general  reading  in  the  Society's  Reports.  Talkers,  dreamers, 
faddists  were  not  desired;  a  member  must  possess  some 
definite  abnormal  power  before  he  could  be  elected.  He 
must  be  clairvoyant  or  clairaudient,  an  automatic  writer, 
trance-painter,  medium,  ghost-seer,  prophet,  priest  or  king. 

Members,  therefore,  stated  their  special  qualification  to 
each  other  without  false  modesty :  "I'm  a  trance  medium," 
for  instance ;  "Oh,  really !  I  see  auras,  of  course" ;  while 
others  had  written  automatic  poetry,  spoken  in  trance — 
"inspirational  speakers,"  that  is — photographed  a  spirit, 
appeared  to  someone  at  a  distance,  or  dreamed  a  prophetic 
dream  that  later  had  come  true.  Mediums,  spirit-photog- 
raphers, and  prophetic  dreamers  were,  perhaps,  the  most 
popular  qualifications  to  offer,  but  there  were  many  who 
remembered  past  lives  and  not  a  few  could  leave  their 
bodies  consciously  at  will. 

Memberships  cost  two  guineas,  the  hat  was  occasionally 
passed  round  for  special  purposes,  there  was  a  monthly 
dinner  in  Soho,  when  members  stood  up,  like  saved  sinners 
at  a  revivalist  meeting,  and  gave  personal  testimony  of  con- 


136  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

version  or  related  some  new  strange  incident.  The  Prome- 
theans  were  full  of  stolen  fire  and  life. 

Among  them  were  ambitious  souls  who  desired  to  start 
a  new  religion,  deeming  the  Church  past  hope.  Others,  like 
the  water-dowsers  and  telepathists,  were  humbler.  There 
was  an  Inner  Circle  which  sought  to  revive  the  Mysteries, 
and  gave  very  private  performances  of  dramatic  and  sym- 
bolic kind,  based  upon  recovered  secret  knowledge,  at  the 
solstices  and  equinoxes.  New  Thought  members  despised 
these,  believing  nothing  connected  with  the  past  had  value ; 
they  looked  ahead;  "live  in  the  present,"  "do  it  now"  was 
their  watchword.  Astrologers  were  numerous  too.  These 
cast  horoscopes,  or,  for  a  small  fee,  revealed  one's  secret 
name,  true  colour,  lucky  number,  day  of  the  week  and 
month,  and  so  forth.  One  lady  had  a  tame  "Elemental." 
Students  of  Magic  and  Casters  of  Spells,  wearers  of  talis- 
mans and  intricate  designs  in  precious  or  inferior  metal, 
according  to  taste  and  means,  were  well  represented,  and 
one  and  all  believed,  of  course,  in  spirits. 

None,  however,  belonged  to  any  Sect  of  the  day,  what- 
ever it  might  be ;  they  wore  no  labels ;  they  were  seekers, 
questers,  inquirers  whom  no  set  of  rules  or  dogmas  dared 
confine  within  fixed  limits.  An  entirely  open  mind  and  no 
prejudices,  they  prided  themselves,  distinguished  them. 

"Define  it  in  scientific  terms,  this  New  Age — I  cannot," 
replied  Povey  in  his  shrill  voice,  "for  science  deals  only 
with  the  examination  of  the  known.  Yet  you  only  have  to 
look  round  you  at  the  world  to-day  to  see  its  obvious  signs. 
Humanity  is  changing,  new  powers  everywhere " 

Devonham  interrupted  unkindly,  before  the  other  could 
assume  he  had  proved  something  by  merely  stating  it: 

"What  are  these  signs,  if  I  may  ask?"  he  questioned 
sharply.  "For  if  you  can  name  them,  we  can  examine  them 
— er — scientifically."  He  used  the  word  with  malice,  know- 
ing it  was  ever  on  the  Promethean  lips. 

"There  you  are,  at  cross-purposes  at  once,"  declared 
Povey.  "I  refer  to  hints,  half-lights,  intuitions,  signs  that 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  137 

only  the  most  sensitive  among  us,  those  with  psychic  divina- 
tion, with  spiritual  discernment — that  only  the  privileged 
and  those  developed  in  advance  of  the  Race — can  know. 
And,  instantly  you  produce  your  microscope,  as  though  I 
offered  you  the  muscles  of  a  tadpole  to  dissect." 

They  glared  at  one  another.  "We  shall  never  get  progress 
your  way,"  Povey  fumed,  withdrawing  his  head  and  neck 
between  his  shoulders. 

"Returning  to  the  Middle  Ages,  on  the  other  hand,"  men- 
tioned Devonham,  "seems  like  advancing  in  a  circle,  doesn't 
it?" 

"Dr.  Devonham,"  interrupted  a  pretty,  fair-haired  girl 
with  an  intense  manner,  "forgive  me  for  breaking  up  your 
interesting  talk,  but  you  come  so  seldom,  you  know,  and 
there's  a  lady  here  who  is  dying  to  be  introduced.  She  has 
just  seen  crimson  flashing  in  your  aura,  and  she  wants  to 
ask — do  you  mind  very  much?"  She  smiled  so  sweetly 
at  him,  and  at  Mr.  Povey,  too,  who  was  said  to  be  engaged 
to  her,  though  none  believed  it,  that  annoyance  was  not 
possible.  "She  says  she  simply  must  ask  you  if  you  were 
feeling  anger.  Anger,  you  know,  produces  red  or  crimson 
in  one's  visible  atmosphere,"  she  explained  charmingly. 
She  led  him  off,  forgetting,  however,  her  purpose  en  route, 
since  they  presently  sat  down  side  by  side  in  a  quiet  corner 
and  began  to  enjoy  what  seemed  an  interesting  tete-a-tete, 
while  the  aura-seeing  lady  waited  impatiently  and  observed 
them,  without  the  aid  of  clairvoyance,  from  a  distance. 

"And  your  qualifications  for  membership  ?"  askeS  Devon- 
ham.  "I  wonder  if  I  may  ask ?" 

"But  you'd  laugh  at  me,  if  I  told  you,"  she  answered 
simply,  fingering  a  silver  talisman  that  hung  from  her  neck, 
a  six-pointed  star  with  zodiacal  signs  traced  round  a  rose, 
rosa  mystica,  evidently.  "I'm  so  afraid  of  doctors." 

Devonham  shook  his  head  decidedly,  asserting  vehemently 
his  interest,  whereupon  she  told  him  her  little  private  dream 
delightfully,  without  pose  or  affectation,  yet  shyly  and  so 
sincerely  that  he  proved  his  assertion  by  a  genuine  interest. 


138  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"And  does  that  protect  you  among  your  daily  troubles?" 
he  asked,  pointing  to  her  little  silver  talisman.  He  had 
already  commented  sympathetically  upon  her  account  of 
saving  her  new  puppies  from  drowning,  having  dreamed 
the  night  before  that  she  saw  them  gasping  in  a  pail  of 
water,  the  cruel  under-gardener  looking  on.  "Do  you  wear 
it  always,  or  only  on  special  occasions  like  this?" 

"Oh,  Miss  Milligan  made  that,"  she  told  him,  blushing 
a  little.  "She's  rather  poor.  She  earns  her  living  by  de- 
signing  " 

"Oh!" 

"But  I  don't  mean  that.  She  tells  you  your  Sign  and 
works  it  in  metal  for  you.  I  bought  one.  Mine  is  Pisces." 
She  became  earnest.  "I  was  born  in  Pisces,  you  see." 

"And  what  does  Pisces  do  for  you  ?"  he  inquired,  remem- 
bering the  heightened  colour.  The  sincerity  of  this  Rose 
Mystica  delighted  him,  and  he  already  anticipated  her  reply 
with  interest*  Here,,  he  felt,  was  the  credulous,  religious 
type  in  its  naked  purity,  forced  to  believe  in  something 
marvellous. 

"Well,  if  you  wear  your  Sign  next  your  skin  it  brings 
good  luck — it  makes  the  things  you  want  happen."  The 
blush  reappeared  becomingly.  She  did  not  lower  her  eyes. 

"Have  your  things  happened  then?" 

She  hesitated.  "Well,  I've  had  an  awfully  good  time 
ever  since  I  wore  it " 

"Proposals?"  he  asked  gently. 

"Dr.  Devonham!"  she  exclaimed.  "How  ever  did  you 
guess?"  She  looked  very  charming  in  her  innocent  con- 
fusion. 

He  laughed.  "If  you  don't  take  it  off  at  once,"  he  told 
her  solemnly,  "you  may  get  another." 

"It  was  two  in  a  single  week,"  she  confided  a  little 
tremulously.  "Fancy !" 

"The  important  thing,  then,"  he  suggested,  "is  to  wear 
your  talisman  at  the  right  moment,  and  with  the  right 
person." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  139 

But  she  corrected  him  promptly. 

"Oh,  no.  It  brings  the  right  moment  and  the  right  person 
together,  don't  you  see,  and  if  the  other  person  is  a  Pisces 
person,  you  understand  each  other,  of  course,  at  once." 

"Would  that  I  too  were  Pisces!"  he  exclaimed,  seeing 
that  she  was  flattered  by  his  interest.  "I'm  probably" — 
taking  a  sign  at  random — "Scorpio." 

"No,"  she  said  with  grave  disappointment,  "I'm  afraid 
you're  Capricornus,  you  know.  I  can  tell  by  your  nose 
and  eyes — and  cleverness.  But — I  wanted  really  to  ask 
you,"  she  went  on  half  shyly,  "if  I  might— — "  She  stuck 
fast. 

"You  want  to  know,"  he  said,  glancing  at  her  with  quick 
understanding,  "who  he  is."  He  pointed  to  the  door.  "Isn't 
that  it?" 

She  nodded  her  head,  while  a  divine  little  blush  spread 
over  her  face.  Devonham  became  more  interested.  "Why  ?" 
he  asked.  "Did  he  impress  you  so?" 

"Rather,"  she  replied  with  emphasis,  and  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  earnestness  curiously  convincing.  A  sincere 
impression  had  been  registered. 

"His  appearance,  you  mean?" 

She  nodded  again;  the  blush  deepened;  but  it  was  not, 
he  saw,  an  ordinary  blush.  The  sensitive  young  girl  had 
awe  in  her.  "He's  a  friend  of  Dr.  Fillery's,"  he  told  her; 
"a  young  man  who's  lived  in  the  wilds  all  his  life.  But, 
tell  me — why  are  you  so  interested?  Did  he  make  any 
particular  impression  on  you?" 

He  watched  her.  His  own  thoughts  dropped  back  sud- 
denly to  a  strange  memory  of  woods  and  mountains  .  .  . 
a  sunset,  a  blazing  fire  ...  a  hint  of  panic. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  her  tone  lower,  "he  did." 

"Something  very  definite?" 

She  made  no  answer. 

"What  did  you  see?"  he  persisted  gently.  From  woods 
and  mountains,  memory  stepped  back  to  a  railway  station 
and  a  customs  official.  .  .  . 


HO  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Her  manner,  obviously  truthful,  had  deep  wonder,  mys- 
tery, even  worship  in  it.  He  was  aware  of  a  nervous 
reaction  he  disliked,  almost  a  chill.  He  listened  for  her 
next  words  with  an  interest  he  could  hardly  account  for. 

"Wings,"  she  replied,  an  odd  hush  in  her  voice.  "I 
thought  of  wings.  He  seemed  to  carry  me  off  the  earth 
with  great  rushing  wings,  as  the  wind  blows  a  leaf.  It 
was  too  lovely:  I  felt  like  a  dancing  flame.  I  thought  he 
was " 

"What?"  Something  in  his  mind  held  its  breath  a 
moment. 

"You  won't  laugh,  Dr.  Devonham,  will  you?  I  thought 
— for  a  second — of — an  angel."  Her  voice  died  away. 

For  a  second  the  part  of  his  mood  that  held  its  breath 
struggled  between  anger  and  laughter.  A  moment's  con- 
fusion in  him  there  certainly  was. 

"That  makes  two  in  the  room,"  he  said  gently,  recover- 
ing himself.  He  smiled.  But  she  did  not  hear  the  playful 
compliment;  she  did  not  see  the  smile.  "You've  a  delight- 
ful, poetic  little  soul,"  he  added  under  his  breath,  watching 
the  big  earnest  eyes  whose  rapt  expression  met  his  own  so 
honestly.  Having  made  her  confession  she  was  still 
engrossed,  absorbed,  he  saw,  in  her  own  emotion.  ...  So 
this  was  the  picture  that  LeVallon,  by  his  mere  appearance 
alone,  left  upon  an  impressionable  young  girl,  an  impres- 
sion, he  realized,  that  was  profound  and  true  and  absolute, 
whatever  value  her  own  individual  interpretation  of  it 
might  have.  Her  mention  of  space,  wind,  fire,  speed,  he 
noticed  in  particular — "off  the  earth  .  .  .  rushing  wind  .  .  . 
dancing  flame  ...  an  angel !" 

It  was  easy,  of  course,  to  jeer.  Yet,  somehow,  he  did 
not  jeer  at  all. 

She  relapsed  into  silence,  which  proved  how  great  had 
been  the  emotional  discharge  accompanying  the  confession, 
temporarily  exhausting  her.  Dr.  Devonham  keenly  regis- 
tered the  small,  important  details. 

"Entertaining  an  angel  unawares  in  a  Chelsea  Studio/' 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  141 

he  said,  laughingly ;  then  reminding  her  presently  that  there 
was  a  lady  who  was  "dying  to  be  introduced"  to  him,  made 
his  escape,  and  for  the  next  ten  minutes  found  himself 
listening  to  a  disquisition  on  auras  which  described  "visible 
atmospheres  whose  colour  changes  with  emotion  .  .  .  radio- 
activity .  .  .  the  halo  worn  by  saints"  .  .  .  the  effect  of 
light  noticed  about  very  good  people  and  of  blackness  that 
the  wicked  emanated,  and  ending  up  with  the  "radiant 
atmosphere  that  shone  round  the  figure  of  Christ  and  was 
believed  to  show  the  most  lovely  and  complicated  geomet- 
rical designs." 

"God  geometrizes — you,  doubtless,  know  the  ancient  say- 
ing ?"  Mrs.  Towzer  said  it  like  a  challenge. 

"I  have  heard  it,"  admitted  her  listener  shortly,  his  first 
opportunity  of  making  himself  audible.  "Plato  said  some 
other  fine  things  too — — " 

"I  felt  sure  you  were  feeling  cross  just  now,"  the  lady 
went  on,  "because  I  saw  lines  and  arrows  of  crimson  dart- 
ing and  flashing  through  your  aura  while  you  were  talking 
to  Mr.  Povey.  He  is  very  annoying  sometimes,  isn't  he? 
I  often  wonder  where  all  our  subscriptions  go  to.  I  never 
could  understand  a  balance-sheet-  Can  you  ?" 

But  Devonham,  having  noticed  Dr.  Fillery  moving  across 
the  room,  did  not  answer,  even  if  he  heard  the  question. 
Fillery,  he  saw,  was  now  standing  near  the  door  where 
Khilkoff  and  LeVallon  had  disappeared  to  see  the  sculpture, 
an  oddly  rapt  expression  on  his  face.  He  was  talking  with 
a  member  called  Father  Collins.  The  buzz  of  voices,  the 
incessant  kaleidoscope  of  colour  and  moving  figures,  made 
the  atmosphere  a  little  electric.  Extricating  himself  with  a 
neat  excuse,  he  crossed  towards  his  colleague,  but  the  latter 
was  already  surrounded  before  he  reached  him.  A  forest  of 
coloured  scarves,  odd  coiffures,  gleaming  talismans,  inter- 
vened; he  saw  men's  faces  of  intense,  eager,  preoccupied 
expression,  old  and  young,  long  hair  and  bald;  there  was 
a  new  perfume  in  the  air,  incense  evidently;  tea,  coffee, 
lemonade  were  being  served,  with  stronger  drink  for  the 


142  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

few  who  liked  it,  and  cigarettes  were  everywhere.  The 
note  everywhere  was  exalte  rather. 

Out  of  the  excited  throng  his  eyes  then  by  chance, 
apparently,  picked  up  the  figure  of  Lady  Gleeson,  smoking 
her  cigarette  alone  in  a  big  armchair,  a  half-empty  glass  of 
wine-cup  beside  her.  She  caught  his  attention  instantly, 
this  "pretty  Lady  Gleeson,"  although  personally  he  found 
neither  title  nor  adjective  justified.  The  dark  hair  framed 
a  very  white  skin.  The  face  was  shallow,  trivial,  yet  with 
a  direct  intensity  in  the  shining  eyes  that  won  for  her  the 
reputation  of  being  attractive  to  certain  men.  Her  smile 
added  to  the  notoriety  she  loved,  a  curious  smile  that  lifted 
the  lip  oddly,  showing  the  little  pointed  teeth.  To  him,  it 
seemed  somehow  a  face  that  had  been  over-kissed;  every- 
thing had  been  kissed  out  of  it;  the  mouth,  the  lips,  were 
worn  and  barren  in  an  appearance  otherwise  still  young. 
She  was  very  expensively  dressed,  and  deemed  her  legs  of 
such  symmetry  that  it  were  a  shame  to  hide  them;  clad  in 
tight  silk  stockings,  and  looking  like  strips  of  polished  steel, 
they  were  now  visible  almost  to  the  knee,  where  the  edge 
of  the  skirt,  neatly  trimmed  in  fur,  cut  them  off  sharply. 
Some  wag  in  the  Society,  paraphrasing  the  syllables  of  her 
name,  wittily  if  unkindly,  had  christened  her  fille  de  joie. 
When  she  heard  it  she  was  rather  pleased  than  otherwise. 

Lady  Gleeson,  too,  he  saw  now,  was  watching  the  private 
door.  The  same  moment,  as  so  often  occurred  between 
himself  and  his  colleague  at  some  significant  point  in  time 
and  space,  he  was  aware  of  Fillery's  eye  upon  his  own 
across  the  intervening  heads  and  shoulders.  Fillery,  also, 
had  noticed  that  Lady  Gleeson  watched  that  door.  His 
changed  position  in  the  room  was  partly  explained. 

A  slightly  cynical  smile  touched  Dr.  Devonham's  lips,  but 
vanished  again  quickly,  as  he  approached  the  lady,  bowed 
politely,  and  asked  if  he  might  bring  her  some  refreshment. 
He  was  too  discerning  to  say  "more"  refreshment.  But 
she  dotted  every  i,  she  had  no  half  tones. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  143 

"Thanks,  kind  Dr.  Devonham,"  she  said  in  a  decided 
tone,  her  voice  thin,  a  trifle  husky,  yet  not  entirely  un- 
musical. It  held  a  strange  throaty  quality.  "It's  so  absurdly 
light,"  she  added,  holding  out  the  glass  she  first  emptied. 
"The  mystics  don't  hold  with  anything  strong  apparently. 
But  I'm  tired,  and  you  discovered  it.  That's  clever  of  you. 
It'll  do  me  good." 

He,  malevolently,  assured  her  that  it  would. 

"Who's  your  friend?"  she  asked  point  blank,  with  an 
air  that  meant  to  have  a  proper  answer,  as  he  brought  the 
glass  and  took  a  chair  near  her.  "He  looks  unusual.  More 
like  a  hurdle-race  champion  than  a  visionary."  A  sneer 
lurked  in  the  voice.  She  fixed  her  determined  clear  grey 
eyes  upon  his,  eyes  sparkling  with  interest,  curiosity  in  life, 
desire,  the  last-named  quality  of  unmistakable  kind.  "I 
think  I  should  like  to  know  him  perhaps."  It  was  mentioned 
as  a  favour  to  the  other. 

Devonham,  who  disliked  and  disapproved  of  all  these 
people  collectively,  felt  angry  suddenly  with  Fillery  for 
having  brought  LeVallon  among  them.  It  was  after  all  a 
foolish  experiment ;  the  atmosphere  was  dangerous  for  any- 
one of  unstable,  possibly  of  hysterical  temperament.  He 
had  vengeance  to  discharge.  He  answered  with  deliberate 
malice,  leading  her  on  that  he  might  watch  her  reactions. 
She  was  so  transparently  sincere. 

"I  hardly  think  Mr.  LeVallon  would  interest  you,"  he 
said  lightly.  "He  is  neither  modern  nor  educated.  He  has 
spent  his  life  in  the  backwoods,  and  knows  nothing  but 
plants  and  stars  and  weather  and — animals.  You  would  find 
him  dull." 

"No  man  with  a  face  and  figure  like  that  can  be  dull," 
she  said  quickly,  her  eyes  alight. 

He  glanced  at  her  rings,  the  jewelry  round  her  neck,  her 
expensive  gown  that  would  keep  a  patient  for  a  year  or 
two.  He  remembered  her  millionaire  South  African 
husband  who  was  her  foolish  slave.  She  lived,  he  knew, 


144  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

entirely  for  her  own  small,  selfish  pleasure.  Although  he 
meant  to  use  her,  his  gorge  rose.  He  produced  his  happiest 
smile. 

"You  are  a  keen  observer,  Lady  Gleeson,"  he  remarked. 
"He  doesn't  look  quite  ordinary,  I  admit."  After  a  pause 
he  added,  "It's  a  curious  thing,  but  Mr.  LeVallon  doesn't 
care  for  the  charms  that  we  other  men  succumb  to  so  easily. 
He  seems  indifferent.  What  he  wants  is  knowledge  only. 
.  .  .  Apparently  he's  more  interested  in  stars  than  in  girls." 

"Rubbish,"  she  rejoined.  "He  hasn't  met  any  in  his 
woods,  that's  all." 

Her  directness  rather  disconcerted  him.  At  the  same 
time,  it  charmed  him  a  little,  though  he  did  not  know  it. 
His  dislike  of  the  woman,  however,  remained.  The  idle, 
self-centred  rich  annoyed  him.  They  were  so  useless.  The 
fabulous  jewelry  hanging  upon  such  trash  now  stirred  his 
bile.  He  was  conscious  of  the  lust  for  pleasure  in  her. 

"Yet,  after  all,  he's  rather  an  interesting  fellow  perhaps," 
he  told  her,  as  with  an  air  of  sudden  enthusiasm.  "Do  you 
know  he  talks  of  rather  wonderful  things,  too.  Mere 
dreams,  of  course,  yet,  for  all  that,  out  of  the  ordinary.  He 
has  vague  memories,  it  seems,  of  another  state  of  existence 
altogether.  He  speaks  sometimes  of — of  marvellous  women, 
compared  to  whom  our  women  here,  our  little  dressed-up 
dolls,  seem  commonplace  and  insignificant."  And,  to  his 
keen  enjoyment,  Lady  Gleeson  took  the  bait  with  open 
mouth.  She  recrossed  her  shapely  legs.  She  wriggled  a 
little  in  her  chair.  Her  be-ringed  fingers  began  fidgeting 
along  the  priceless  necklace. 

"Just  what  I  should  expect,"  she  replied  in  her  throaty 
voice,  "from  a  young  man  who  looks  as  he  does." 

She  began  to  play  her  own  cards  then,  mentioning  that 
her  husband  was  interested  in  Dr.  Fillery's  Clinique.  Devon- 
ham,  however,  at  once  headed  her  off.  He  described  the 
work  of  the  Home  with  enthusiasm.  "It's  fortunate  that 
Dr.  Fillery  is  rich,"  he  observed  carelessly,  "and  can  follow 
out  his  own  ideas  exactly  as  he  likes.  I,  personally,  should 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  145 

never  have  joined  him  had  he  been  dependent  upon  the 
mere  philanthropist." 

"How  wise  of  you,"  she  returned.  "And  I  should  never 
have  joined  this  mad  Society  but  for  the  chance  of  coming 
across  unusual  people.  Now,  your  Mr.  LeVallon  is  one. 
You  may  introduce  him  to  me,"  she  repeated  as  an 
ultimatum. 

Her  directness  was  the  one  thing  he  admired  in  her. 
At  her  own  level,  she  was  real.  He  was  aware  of  the 
semi-erotic  atmosphere  about  these  Meetings  and  realized 
that  Lady  Gleeson  came  in  search  of  excitement,  also  that 
she  was  too  sincere  to  hide  it.  She  wore  her  insignia 
unconcealed.  Her  talisman  was  of  base  metal,  the  one  cheap 
thing  she  wore,  yet  real.  This  foolish  woman,  after  all, 
might  be  of  use  unwittingly.  She  might  capture  LeVallon, 
if  only  for  a  moment,  before  Nayan  Khilkoff  enchanted 
him  with  that  wondrous  sweetness  to  which  no  man  could 
remain  indifferent.  For  he  had  long  ago  divined  the  natural, 
unspoken  passion  between  his  Chief  and  the  daughter  of 
his  host,  and  with  his  whole  heart  he  desired  to  advance  it. 

"My  husband,  too,  would  like  to  meet  him,  I'm  sure," 
he  heard  her  saying,  while  he  smiled  at  the  reappearance 
of  the  gilded  bait.  "My  husband,  you  know,  is  interested 
in  spirit  photography  and  Dr.  Frood's  unconscious  theories." 

He  rose,  without  even  a  smile.  "I'll  try  and  find  him 
at  once,"  he  said,  "and  bring  him  to  you.  I  only  hope," 
he  added  as  an  afterthought,  "that  Miss  Khilkoff  hasn't 
monopolized  him  already " 

"She  hasn't  come,"  Lady  Gleeson  betrayed  herself. 
Instinctively  she  knew  her  rival,  he  saw,  with  an  inward 
chuckle,  as  he  rose  to  fetch  the  desired  male. 

He  found  him  the  centre  of  a  little  group  just  inside  \ 
the  door  leading  into  the  sculptor's  private  studio,  where 
Khilkoff  had  evidently  been  showing  his  new  group  of 
elemental  figures.  Fillery,  a  few  feet  away,  observing 
everything  at  close  range,  was  still  talking  eagerly  with 
Father  Collins.  LeVallon  and  Kempster,  the  pacifist,  were 


146  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

in  the  middle  of  an  earnest  talk,  of  which  Devonham  caught 
an  interesting  fragment.  Kempster's  qualification  for 
membership  was  an  occasional  display  of  telepathy.  He 
was  a  neat  little  man  exceedingly  well  dressed,  over-dressed 
in  fact,  for  his  tailor's  dummy  appearance  betrayed  that  he 
thought  too  much  about  his  personal  appearance.  LeVallon, 
towering  over  him  like  some  flaming  giant,  spoke  quietly, 
but  with  rare  good  sense,  it  seemed.  Fillery's  condensed 
education  had  worked  wonders  on  his  mind.  Devonham 
was  astonished.  About  the  pair  others  had  collected,  listen- 
ing, sometimes  interjecting  opinions  of  their  own,  many 
women  among  them  leaning  against  the  furniture  or  sitting 
on  cushions  and  movable,  dump-like  divans  on  the  floor. 
It  was  a  picturesque  little  scene.  But  LeVallon  somehow 
dwarfed  the  others. 

"I  really  think,"  Kempster  was  saying,  "we  might  now 
become  a  comfortable  little  third-rate  Power — like  Spain, 
for  instance — enjoy  ourselves  a  bit,  live  on  our  splendid 
past,  and  take  the  sun  in  ease."  He  looked  about  him  with 
a  self-satisfied  smirk,  as  though  he  had  himself  played  a 
fine  role  in  the  splendid  past. 

LeVallon's  reply  surprised  him  perhaps,  but  it  surprised 
Devonham  still  more.  The  real,  the  central  self,  LeVallon, 
he  thought  with  satisfaction,  was  waking  and  developing. 
His  choice  of  words  was  odd  too. 

"No,  no !  You — the  English  are  the  leaders  of  the  world ; 
the  best  quality  is  in  you.  If  you  give  up,  the  world  goes 
down  and  backwards."  The  deep,  musical  tones  vibrated 
through  the  little  room.  The  speaker,  though  so  quiet,  had 
the  air  of  a  powerful  athlete,  ready  to  strike.  His  pose 
was  admirable.  Faces  turned  up  and  stared.  There  was 
a  murmur  of  approval. 

"We're  so  tired  of  that  talk,"  replied  Kempster,  no  whit 
disconcerted  by  the  evident  signs  of  his  unpopularity. 
"Each  race  should  take  its  turn.  We've  borne  the  white 
man's  burden  long  enough.  Why  not  drop  it,  and  let  an- 
other nation  do  its  bit?  We've  earned  a  rest,  I  think." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  147 

His  precise,  high  voice  was  persuasive.  He  was  a  good 
public  speaker,  wholly  impervious  to  another  point  of  view. 
But  the  resonant  tones  of  LeVallon's  rejoinder  seemed  to 
bury  him,  voice,  exquisite  clothes  and  all. 

"There  is  no  other — unless  you  hand  it  back  to  weaker 
shoulders.  No  other  race  has  the  qualities  of  generosity, 
of  big  careless  courage  of  the  unselfish  kind  required. 
Above  all,  you  alone  have  the  chivalry." 

Two  things  Devonham  noted  as  he  heard:  behind  the 
natural  resonance  in  the  big  voice  lay  a  curious  deepness 
that  made  him  think  of  thunder,  a  volume  of  sound  sup- 
pressed, potential,  roaring,  which,  if  let  loose,  might  over- 
whelm, submerge.  It  belonged  to  an  earnestness  as  yet 
unsuspected  in  him,  a  strength  of  conviction  based  on  a 
great  purpose  that  was  evidently  subconscious  in  him,  as 
though  he  served  it,  belonged  to  it,  without  realizing  that 
he  did  so.  He  stood  there  like  some  new  young  prophet, 
proclaiming  a  message  not  entirely  his  own.  Also  he  said 
"you"  in  place  of  the  natural  "we." 

Devonham  listened  attentively.  Here,  too,  at  any  rate, 
was  an  exchange  of  ideas  above  the  "psychic"  level  he  so 
disliked. 

LeVallon,  he  noticed  at  once,  showed  no  evidence  of 
emotion,  though  his  eyes  shone  brightly  and  his  voice  was 
earnest. 

"America "  began  Kempster,  but  was  knocked  down 

by  a  fact  before  he  could  continue. 

"Has  deliberately  made  itself  a  Province  again.  America 
saw  the  ideal,  then  drew  back,  afraid.  It  is  once  more 
provincial,  cut  off  from  the  planet,  a  big  island  again,  con- 
cerned with  local  affairs  of  its  own.  Your  Democracy  has 
failed." 

"As  it  always  must,"  put  in  Kempster,  glad  perhaps  to 
shift  the  point,  when  he  found  no  ready  answer.  "The 
wider  the  circle  from  which  statesmen  are  drawn,  the  lower 
the  level  of  ability.  We  should  be  patriotic  for  ideas,  not 
for  places.  The  success  of  one  country  means  the  downfall 


148  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

of  another.  That's  not  spiritual.  ,  ,  ."  He  continued  at 
high  speed,  but  Devonham  missed  the  words.  He  was  too 
preoccupied  with  the  other's  language,  penetration,  point 
of  view.  LeVallon  had,  indeed,  progressed.  There  was 
nothing  of  the  alternative  personality  in  this,  nothing  of 
the  wild,  strange,  nature-being  whom  he  called  "N.  H." 

"Patriotism,  of  course,  is  vulgar  rubbish,"  he  heard 
Kempster  finishing  his  tirade.  "It  is  local,  provincial.  The 
world  is  a  whole." 

But  LeVallon  did  not  let  him  escape  so  easily.  It  was 
admirable  really.  This  half-educated  countryman  from  the 
woods  and  mountains  had  a  clear,  concentrated  mind.  He 
had  risen  too.  Whence  came  his  comprehensive  outlook  ? 

"Chivalry — you  call  it  sporting  instinct — is  the  first  essen- 
tial of  a  race  that  is  to  lead  the  world.  It  is  a  topmost 
quality.  Your  race  has  it.  It  has  come  down  even  into 
your  play.  It  is  instinctive  in  you  more  than  any  other. 
And  chivalry  is  unselfish.  It  is  divine.  You  have  con- 
quered the  sun.  The  hot  races  all  obey  you." 

The  thunder  broke  through  the  strange  but  simple  words 
which,  in  that  voice,  and  with  that  quiet  earnestness,  carried 
some  weight  of  meaning  in  them  that  print  cannot  convey. 
The  women  gazed  at  him  with  unconcealed,  if  not  with 
understanding  admiration.  "Lead  us,  inspire  us,  at  any 
rate!"  their  eyes  said  plainly;  "but  love  us,  O  love  us, 
passionately,  above  all!" 

Devonham,  hardly  able  to  believe  his  ears  and  eyes, 
turned  to  see  if  Fillery  had  heard  the  scrap  of  talk.  Judg- 
ing by  the  expression  on  his  face,  he  had  not  heard  it. 
Father  Collins  seemed  saying  things  that  held  his  attention 
too  closely.  Yet  Fillery,  for  all  his  apparent  absorption, 
had  heard  it,  though  he  read  it  otherwise  than  his  some- 
what literal  colleague.  It  was,  nevertheless,  an  interesting 
revelation  to  him,  since  it  proved  to  him  again  how  unreal 
"LeVallon"  was ;  how  easily,  quickly  this  educated  simula- 
crum caught  up,  assimilated  and  reproduced  as  his  own, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  149 

yet  honestly,  whatever  was  in  the  air  at  the  moment.  For 
the  words  he  had  spoken  were  not  his  own,  but  Fillery's. 
They  lay,  or  something  like  them  lay,  unuttered  in  Fillery's 
mind  just  at  that  very  moment.  Yet,  even  while  listening 
attentively  to  Father  Collins,  his  close  interest  in  LeVallon 
was  so  keen,  so  watchful,  that  another  portion  of  his  mind 
was  listening  to  this  second  conversation,  even  taking  part 
in  it  inaudibly.  LeVallon  caught  his  language  from  the 


Devonham  made  his  opportunity,  leading  LeVallon  off 
to  be  introduced  to  Lady  Gleeson,  who  still  sat  waiting  for 
them  on  the  divan  in  the  outer  studio. 

As  they  made  their  way  through  the  buzzing  throng  into 
the  larger  room,  Devonham  guessed  suddenly  that  Lady 
Gleeson  must  somehow  have  heard  in  advance  that  Le- 
Vallon would  be  present;  her  flair  for  new  men  was 
singular;  the  sexual  instinct,  unduly  developed,  seemed 
aware  of  its  prey  anywhere  within  a  big  radius.  He  owed 
his  friend  a  hint  of  guidance  possibly.  "A  little  woman," 
he  explained  as  they  crossed  over,  "who  has  a  weakness 
for  big  men  and  will  probably  pay  you  compliments.  She 
comes  here  to  amuse  herself  with  what  she  calls  'the 
freaks.'  Sometimes  she  lends  her  great  house  for  the  meet- 
ings. Her  husband's  a  millionaire."  To  which  the  other, 
in  his  deep,  quiet  voice,  replied:  "Thank  you,  Dr.  Devon- 
ham." 

"She's  known  as  'the  pretty  Lady  Gleeson.' " 

"That?"  exclaimed  the  other,  looking  towards  her. 

"Hush !"  his  companion  warned  him. 

As  they  approached,  Lady  Gleeson,  waiting  with  keen 
impatience,  saw  them  coming  and  made  her  preparations. 
The  frown  of  annoyance  at  the  long  delay  was  replaced  by 
a  smile  of  welcome  that  lifted  the  upper  lip  on  one  side 
only,  showing  the  white  even  teeth  with  odd  effect.  She 
stared  at  LeVallon,  thought  Devonham,  as  a  wolf  eyes  its 
prey.  Deftly  lowering  her  dress — betraying  thereby  that 


150 

she  knew  it  was  too  high,  and  a  detail  now  best  omitted 
from  the  picture — she  half  rose  from  her  seat  as  they  came 
up.  The  instinctive  art  of  deference,  though  instantly  cor- 
rected, did  not  escape  Paul  Devonham's  too  observant  eye. 

"You  were  kind  enough  to  say  I  might  introduce  my 
friend,"  murmured  he.  "Mr.  LeVallon  is  new  to  our  big 
London2  and  a  stranger  among  all  these  people." 

LeVallon  bowed  in  his  calm,  dignified  fashion,  saying 
no  word,  but  Lady  Gleeson  put  her  hand  out,  and,  finding 
his  own,  shook  it  with  her  air  of  brilliant  welcome.  Determi- 
nation lay  in  her  smile  and  in  her  gesture,  in  her  voice  as 
well,  as  she  said  familiarly  at  once:  "But,  Mr.  LeVallon, 
how  tall  are  you,  really?  You  seem  to  me  a  perfect  giant." 
She  made  room  for  him  beside  her  on  the  divan.  "Every- 
body here  looks  undersized  beside  you !"  She  became 
intense. 

"I  am  six  feet  and  three  inches,"  he  replied  literally,  but 
without  expression  in  his  face.  There  was  no  smile.  He 
was  examining  her  as  frankly  as  she  examined  him.  Devon- 
ham  was  examining  the  pair  of  them.  The  lack  of  interest, 
the  cold  indifference  in  LeVallon,  he  reflected,  must  put 
the  young  woman  on  her  mettle,  accustomed  as  she  was  to 
quick  submission  in  her  victims. 

LeVallon,  however,  did  not  accept  the  offered  seat;  per- 
haps he  had  not  noticed  the  invitation.  He  showed  no 
interest,  though  polite  and  gentle. 

"He  towers  over  all  of  us,"  Devonham  put  in,  to  help 
an  awkward  pause.  Yet  he  meant  it  more  than  literally; 
the  empty  prettiness  of  the  shallow  little  face  before  him, 
the  triviality  of  Miss  Rosa  Mystica,  the  cheapness  of  Povey, 
Kempster,  Mrs.  Towzer,  the  foolish  air  of  otherworldly 
expectancy  in  the  whole  room,  of  deliberate  exaggeration, 
of  eyes  big  with  wonder  for  sensation  as  story  followed 
story — all  this  came  upon  him  with  its  note  of  poverty  and 
tawdriness  as  he  used  the  words. 

Something  in  the  atmosphere  of  LeVallon  had  this  effect 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  151 

— whence  did  it  come?  he  questioned,  puzzled — of  dwarfing 
all  about  him. 

"All  London,  remember,  isn't  like  this,"  he  heard  Lady 
Gleeson  saying,  a  dangerous  purr  audible  in  the  throaty 
voice.  "Do  sit  down  here  and  tell  me  what  you  think  about 
it.  I  feel  you  don't  belong  here  quite,  do  you  know? 
London  cramps  you,  doesn't  it?  And  you  find  the  women 
dull  and  insipid?"  She  deliberately  made  more  room,  pat- 
ting the  cushions  invitingly  with  a  flashing  hand,  that  alone, 
thought  Devonham  contemptuously,  could  have  endowed 
at  least  two  big  Cliniques.  "Tell  me  about  yourself,  Mr. 
LeVallon.  I'm  dying  to  hear  about  your  life  in  the  woods 
and  mountains.  Do  talk  to  me.  I  am  so  bored!" 

What  followed  surprised  Devonham  more  than  any  of 
the  three  perhaps.  He  ascribed  it  to  what  Fillery  had  called 
the  "natural  gentleman,"  while  Lady  Gleeson,  doubtless, 
ascribed  it  to  her  own  personal  witchery. 

With  that  easy  grace  of  his  he  sat  down  instantly  beside 
her  on  the  low  divan,  his  height  and  big  frame  contriving 
the  awkward  movement  without  a  sign  of  clumsiness.  His 
indifference  was  obvious — to  Devonham,  but  the  vain  eyes 
of  the  woman  did  not  notice  it. 

"That's  better,"  she  again  welcomed  him  with  a  happy 
laugh.  She  edged  closer  a  little.  "Now,  do  make  yourself 
comfortable" — she  arranged  the  cushions  again — "and 
please  tell  me  about  your  wild  life  in  the  forests,  or  wherever 
it  was.  You  know  a  lot  about  the  stars,  I  hear."  She 
devoured  his  face  and  figure  with  her  shining  eyes. 

The  upper  lip  was  lifted  for  a  second  above  a  gleaming 
tooth.  Devonham  had  the  feeling  she  was  about  to  eat  him, 
licking  her  lips  already  in  anticipation.  He  himself  would 
be  dismissed,  he  well  knew,  in  another  moment,  for  Lady 
Gleeson  would  not  tolerate  a  third  person  at  the  meal.  Be- 
fore he  was  sent  about  his  business,  however,  he  had  the 
good  fortune  to  hear  LeVallon's  opening  answer  to  the 
foolish  invitation.  Amazement  filled  him,  He  wished 


152  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Fillery  could  have  heard  it  with  him,  seen  the  play  of  ex- 
pression on  the  faces  too — the  bewilderment  of  sensational 
hunger  for  something  new  in  Lady  Gleeson's  staring  eyes, 
arrested  instantaneously;  the  calm,  cold  look  of  power, 
yet  power  tempered  by  a  touch  of  pity,  in  LeVallon's  glance, 
a  glance  that  was  only  barely  aware  of  her  proximity.  He 
smiled  as  he  spoke,  and  the  smile  increased  his  natural 
radiance.  He  looked  extraordinarily  handsome,  yet  with 
a  new  touch  of  strangeness  that  held  even  the  cautious 
doctor  momentarily  almost  spellbound. 

"Stars — yes,  but  I  rarely  see  them  here  in  London,  and 
they  seem  so  far  away.  They  comfort  me.  They  bring 
me — they  and  women  bring  me — nearest  to  a  condition  that 
is  gone  from  me.  I  have  lost  it."  He  looked  straight  into 
her  face,  so  that  she  blinked  and  screwed  up  her  eyes,  while 
her  breathing  came  more  rapidly.  "But  stars  and  women," 
he  went  on,  his  voice  vibrating  with  music  in  spite  of  its 
quietness,  "remind  me  that  it  is  recoverable.  Both  give  me 
this  sweet  message.  I  read  it  in  stars  and  in  the  eyes  of 
women.  And  it  is  true  because  no  words  convey  it.  For 
women  cannot  express  themselves,  I  see;  and  stars,  too, 
are  silent — here." 

The  same  soft  thunder  as  before  sounded  below  the 
gently  spoken  words;  Lady  Gleeson  was  trembling  a  little; 
she  made  a  movement  by  means  of  which  she  shifted  her- 
self yet  nearer  to  her  companion  in  what  seemed  a  natural 
and  unconscious  way.  It  was  doubtless  his  proximity  rather 
than  his  words  that  stirred  her.  Her  face  was  set,  though 
the  lips  quivered  a  trifle  and  the  voice  was  less  shrill  than 
usual  as  she  spoke,  holding  out  her  empty  glass. 

"Thank  you,  Dr.  Devonham,"  she  said  icily. 

The  determined  gesture,  a  toss  of  the  head,  with  the 
glare  of  sharp  impatience  in  the  eyes,  he  could  not  ignore; 
yet  he  accepted  his  curt  dismissal  slowly  enough  to  catch 
her  murmured  words  to  LeVallon: 

"How  wonderful !  How  wonderful  you  are !  And  what 
sort  of  women  .  .  .  ?"  followed  him  as  he  moved  away. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  153 

In  his  heart  rose  again  an  uncomfortable  memory  of  a 
Jura  valley  blazing  in  the  sunset,  and  of  a  half-naked  figure 
worshipping  before  a  great  wood  fire  on  the  rocks.  .  .  . 
He  fancied  he  caught,  too,  in  the  voice,  a  suggestion  of  a 
lilt,  a  chanting  resonance,  that  increased  his  uneasiness 
further.  One  thing  was  certain:  it  was  not  quite  the  ordi- 
nary "LeVallon"  that  answered  the  silly  woman.  The 
reaction  was  of  a  different  kind.  Was,  then,  the  other  self 
awake  and  stirring?  Was  it  "N.  H."  after  all,  as  his 
colleague  claimed  ? 

Allowing  a  considerable  interval  to  pass,  he  returned  with 
a  glass — of  lemonade — reaching  the  divan  in  its  dimlit 
corner  just  in  time  to  see  a  flashing  hand  withdrawn  quickly 
from  LeVallon's  arm,  and  to  intercept  a  glance  that  told 
him  the  intrigue  evidently  had  not  developed  altogether 
according  to  Lady  Gleeson's  plan,  although  her  air  was  one 
of  confidence  and  keenest  self-satisfaction.  LeVallon  sat 
like  a  marble  figure,  cold,  indifferent,  looking  straight  be- 
fore him,  listening,  if  only  with  half  an  ear,  to  a  stream 
of  words  whose  import  it  was  not  difficult  to  guess. 

This  Devonham' s  practised  eye  read  in  the  flashing  look 
she  shot  at  him,  and  in  the  quick  way  she  thanked  him. 

"Coffee,  dear  Dr.  Devonham,  I  asked  for." 

Her  move  was  so  quick,  his  desire  to  watch  them  a 
moment  longer  together  so  keen,  that  for  an  instant  he 
appeared  to  hesitate.  It  was  more  than  appearance ;  he  did 
hesitate — an  instant  merely,  yet  long  enough  for  Lady 
Gleeson  to  shoot  at  him  a  second  swift  glance  of  concen- 
trated virulence,  and  also  long  enough  for  LeVallon  to 
spring  lightly  to  his  feet,  take  the  glass  from  his  hand  and 
vanish  in  the  direction  of  the  refreshment  table  before  any- 
thing could  prevent.  "I  will  get  your  coffee  for  you,"  still 
sounded  in  the  air,  so  quickly  was  the  adroit  manoeuvre 
executed.  LeVallon  had  cleverly  escaped. 

"How  stupid  of  me,"  said  Devonham  quickly,  referring 
to  the  pretended  mistake.  Lady  Gleeson  made  no  reply. 
Her  inward  fury  betrayed  itself,  however,  in  the  tight-set 


154  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

lips  and  the  hard  glitter  of  her  brilliant  little  eyes.  "He 
won't  be  a  moment,"  the  other  added.  "Do  you  find  him 
interesting?  He's  not  very  talkative  as  a  rule,  but  perhaps 
with  you "  He  hardly  knew  what  words  he  used. 

The  look  she  gave  him  stopped  him,  so  intense  was  the 
bitterness  in  the  eyes.  His  interruption,  then,  must  indeed 
have  been  worse — or  better? — timed  than  he  had  imagined. 
She  made  no  pretence  of  speaking.  Turning  her  glance  in 
the  direction  whence  the  coffee  must  presently  appear,  she 
waited,  and  Devonham  might  have  been  a  dummy  for  all 
the  sign  she  gave  of  his  being  there.  He  had  made  an 
enemy  for  life,  he  felt,  a  feeling  confirmed  by  what  almost 
immediately  then  followed.  Neither  the  coffee  nor  its 
bearer  came  that  evening  to  pretty  Lady  Gleeson  in  the 
way  she  had  desired.  She  laid  the  blame  at  Devonham's 
door. 

For  at  that  moment,  as  he  stood  before  her,  secretly 
enjoying  her  anger  a  little,  yet  feeling  foolish,  perhaps,  as 
well,  a  chord  sounded  on  the  piano,  and  a  hush  passed 
instantly  over  the  entire  room.  Someone  was  about  to  sing. 
Nayan  Khilkoff  had  come  in,  unnoticed,  by  the  door  of  the 
private  room.  Her  singing  invariably  formed  a  part  of 
these  entertainments.  The  song,  too,  was  the  one  invariably 
asked  for,  its  music  written  by  herself. 

All  talk  and  movement  stopped  at  the  sound  of  the  little 
prelude,  as  though  a  tap  had  been  turned  off.  Even  Devon- 
ham,  most  unmusical  of  men,  prepared  to  listen  with  enjoy- 
ment. He  tried  to  see  Nayan  at  the  piano,  but  too  many 
people  came  between.  He  saw,  instead,  LeVallon  standing 
close  at  his  side,  the  cup  of  coffee  in  his  hand.  He  had 
that  instant  returned. 

"For  Lady  Gleeson.  Will  you  pass  it  to  her?  Who's 
going  to  sing?"  he  whispered  all  in  the  same  breath.  And 
Devonham  told  him,  as  he  bent  down  to  give  the  cup. 
"Nayan  Khilkoff.  Hush!  It's  a  lovely  song.  I  know  it 
—The  Vagrant's  Epitaph.' " 

They  stood  motionless  to  listen,  as  the  pure  voice  of  the 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  155 

girl,  singing  very  simply  but  with  the  sweetness  and  truth 
of  sincere  feeling,  filled  the  room.  Every  word,  too,  was 
clearly  audible : 

"Change  was  his  mistress;  Chance  his  counsellor. 

Love  could   not  hold  him ;    Duty   forged  no   chain. 
The  wide  seas  and  the  mountains  called  him, 

And  grey  dawns  saw  his  camp-fires  in  the  rain. 

"Sweet  hands  might  tremble! — aye,  but  he  must  go. 

Revel  might  hold  him  for  a  little  space; 
But,  turning  past  the  laughter  and  the  lamps, 

His  eyes  must  ever  catch  the  luring  Face. 

"Dear  eyes  might  question!    Yea,  and  melt  again; 

Rare  lips  a-quiver,  silently  implore; 
But  he  must  ever  turn  his  furtive  head, 

And  hear  that  other  summons  at  the  door. 

"Change  was  his  mistress;  Chance  his  counsellor. 

The  dark  firs  knew  his  whistle  up  the  trail. 
Why  tarries  he  to-day?  .  .  .  And  yesternight 

Adventure  lit  her  stars  without  avail." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

LADY  GLEESON,  owing  to  an  outraged  vanity  and 
jealousy  she  was  unable  to  control,  missed  the  final 
scene,  for  before  the  song  was  actually  finished  she  was 
gone.  Being  near  a  passage  that  was  draped  only  by  a 
curtain,  she  slipped  out  easily,  flung  herself  into  a  luxurious 
motor,  and  vanished  into  the  bleak  autumn  night. 

She  had  seen  enough.  Her  little  heart  raged  with  selfish 
fury.  What  followed  was  told  her  later  by  word  of  mouth. 

Never  could  she  forgive  herself  that  she  had  left  the 
studio  before  the  thing  had  happened.  She  blamed  Devon- 
ham  for  that  too. 

For  LeVallon,  it  appears,  having  passed  the  cup  of  coffee 
to  her  through  a  third  person — in  itself  an  insult  of  indif- 
ference and  neglect — stood  absorbed  in  the  words  and  music 
of  the  song.,  Being  head  and  shoulders  above  the  throng, 
he  easily  saw  the  girl  at  the  piano.  No  one,  unless  it  was 
Fillery,  a  few  yards  away,  watched  him  as  closely  as  did 
Devonham  and  Lady  Gleeson,  though  all  three  for  different 
reasons.  It  was  Devonham,  however,  who  made  the  most 
accurate  note  of  what  he  saw,  though  Fillery 's  memory  was 
possibly  the  truer,  since  his  own  inner  being  supplied  the 
fuller  and  more  sympathetic  interpretation. 

LeVallon,  tall  and  poised,  stood  there  like  a  great  figure 
shaped  in  bronze.  He  was  very  calm.  His  bright  hair 
seemed  to  rise  a  little ;  his  eyes,  steady  and  wondering,  gazed 
fixedly;  his  features,  though  set,  were  mobile  in  the  sense 
that  any  instant  they  might  leap  into  the  alive  and  fluid 
expression  of  some  strong  emotion.  His  whole  being,  in 
a  word,  stood  at  attention,  alert  for  instant  action  of  some 
uncontrollable,  perhaps  terrific  kind,  "He  seemed  like  a 

156 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  157 

glowing  pillar  of  metal  that  must  burst  into  flame  the  very 
next  instant,"  as  a  Member  told  Lady  Gleeson  later. 

Devonham  watched  him.  LeVallon  seemed  transfixed. 
He  stared  above  the  intervening  tousled  heads.  He  drew 
a  series  of  deep  breaths  that  squared  his  shoulders  and 
made  his  chest  expand.  His  very  muscles  ached  apparently 
for  instant  action.  An  intensity  of  wondering  joy  and 
admiration  that  lit  his  face  made  the  eyes  shine  like  stars. 
He  watched  the  singing  girl  as  a  tiger  watches  the  keeper 
who  brings  its  long-expected  food.  The  instant  the  bar  is 
up,  it  springs,  it  leaps,  it  carries  off,  devours.  Only,  in 
this  case,  there  were  no  bars.  Nor  was  the  wild  desire  for 
nourishment  of  a  carnal  kind.  It  was  companionship,  it 
was  intercourse  with  his  own  that  he  desired  so  intensely. 

"He  divines  the  motherhood  in  her,"  thought  Fillery, 
watching  closely,  pain  and  happiness  mingled  in  his  heart. 
"The  protective,  selfless,  upbuilding  power  lies  close  to 
Nature."  And  as  this  flashed  across  him  he  caught  a 
glimpse  by  chance  of  its  exact  opposite — in  Lady  Gleeson's 
peering,  glittering  eyes — the  destructive  lust,  the  selfish 
passion,  the  bird  of  prey. 

"The  dark  firs  knew  his  whistle  up  the  trail,"  the  song 
in  that  soft  true  voice  drew  to  its  close.  LeVallon  was 
trembling. 

"Good  Heavens !"  thought  Devonham.  "Is  it  'N.  H.'  ? 
Is  it  'N.  H./  after  all,  waking — rising  to  take  possession?" 
He,  too,  trembled. 

It  was  here  that  Lady  Gleeson,  close,  intuitive  observer 
of  her  escaping  prey,  rose  up  and  slipped  away,  her  going 
hardly  noticed  by  the  half -entranced,  half-dreaming  hearts 
about  her,  each  intent  upon  its  own  small  heaven  of  neat 
desire.  She  went  as  unobstrusively  as  an  animal  that  is 
aware  of  untoward  conditions  and  surroundings,  showing 
her  teeth,  feeling  her  claws,  yet  knowing  herself  helpless. 
Not  even  Devonham,  his  mind  ever  keenly  alert,  observed 
her  going.  Fillery,  alone,  conscious  of  LeVallon's  eyes 
across  the  room,  took  note  of  it.  She  left,  her  violent  little 


158  THE   BRIGHT   MESSENGER 

will  intent  upon  vengeance  of  a  later  victory  that  she  still 
promised  herself  with  concentrated  passion. 

Yet  Devonham,  though  he  failed  to  notice  the  slim  animal 
of  prey  in  exit,  noticed  this — that  the  face  he  watched  so 
closely  changed  quickly  even  as  he  watched,  and  that  the 
new  expression,  growing  upon  it  as  heat  grows  upon  metal 
set  in  a  flame,  was  an  expression  he  had  seen  before.  He 
had  seen  it  in  that  lonely  mountain  valley  where  a  setting 
sun  poured  gold  upon  a  burning  pyre,  upon  a  dancing,  chant- 
ing figure,  upon  a  human  face  he  now  watched  in  this 
ridiculous  little  Chelsea  studio.  The  sharpness  of  the  air, 
the  very  perfume,  stole  over  him  as  he  stared,  perplexed, 
excited  and  uneasy.  That  strange,  wild,  innocent  and  tender 
face,  that  power,  that  infinite  yearning !  LeVallon  had  dis- 
appeared. It  was  "N.  H."  that  stood  and  watched  the 
singer  at  the  little  modern  piano. 

Then  with  the  end  of  the  song  came  the  rush,  the  bustle 
of  applause,  the  confusion  of  many  people  rising,  trotting 
forward,  all  talking  at  once,  all  moving  towards  the  singer 
— when  LeVallon,  hitherto  motionless  as  a  statue,  suddenly 
leaped  past  and  through  them  like  a  vehement  wind  through 
a  whirl  of  crackling  dead  leaves.  Only  his  deft,  skilful 
movement,  of  poise  and  perfect  balance  combined  with 
accurate  swiftness,  could  have  managed  it  without  bruised 
bodies  and  angry  cries.  There  was  no  clumsiness,  no  visible 
effort,  no  appearance  of  undue  speed.  He  seemed  to  move 
quietly,  though  he  moved  like  fire.  In  a  moment  he  was 
by  the  piano,  and  Nayan,  in  the  act  of  rising  from  her 
stool,  gazed  straight  up  into  his  great  lighted  eyes. 

It  was  singular  how  all  made  way  for  him,  drew  back, 
looked  on.  Confusion  threatened.  Emotion  surged  like 
a  rising  sea.  Without  a  leader  there  might  easily  have  been 
tumult;  even  a  scene.  But  Fillery  was  there.  His  figure 
intervened  at  once. 

"Nayan,"  he  said  in  a  steady  voice,  "this  is  my  friend, 
Mr.  LeVallon.  He  wants  to  thank  you." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  159 

But,  before  she  could  answer,  LeVallon,  his  hand  upon 
her  arm,  said  quickly,  yet  so  quietly  that  few  heard  the 
actual  words,  perhaps — his  voice  resonant,  his  eyes  alight 
with  joy:  "You  are  here  too — with  me,  with  Fillery.  We 
are  all  exiles  together.  But  you  know  the  way  out — the 
way  back !  You  remember !  .  .  ." 

She  stared  with  delicious  wonder  into  his  eyes  as  he 
went  on : 

"O  star  and  woman!  Your  voice  is  wind  and  fire. 
Come!"  And  he  tried  to  seize  her.  "We  will  go  back 
together.  We  work  here  in  vain!  .  .  ."  His  arms  were 
round  her;  almost  their  faces  touched. 

The  girl  rose  instantly,  took  a  step  towards  him,  then 
hung  back;  the  stool  fell  over  with  a  crash;  a  hubbub  of 
voices  rose  in  the  room  behind;  Povey,  Kempster,  a  dozen 
Members  with  them,  pressed  up;  the  women,  with  half- 
shocked,  half -frightened  eyes,  gaped  and  gasped  over  the 
forest  of  intervening  male  shoulders.  A  universal  shuffle 
followed.  The  confusion  was  absurd  and  futile.  Both  male 
and  female  stood  aghast  and  stupid  before  what  they  saw, 
for  behind  the  mere  words  and  gestures  there  was  some- 
thing that  filled  the  little  scene  with  a  strange  shaking  power, 
touching  the  panic  sense. 

LeVallon  lifted  her  across  his  shoulders. 

The  beautiful  girl  was  radiant,  the  man  wore  the  sudden 
semblance  of  a  god.  Their  very  stature  increased.  They 
stood  alone.  Yet  Fillery,  close  by,  stood  with  them.  There 
seemed  a  magic  circle  none  dared  cross  about  the  three. 
Something  immense,  unearthly,  had  come  into  the  room, 
bursting  its  little  space.  Even  Devonham,  breaking  with 
vehemence  through  the  human  ring,  came  to  a  sudden  halt. 

In  a  voice  of  thunder — though  it  was  not  actually  loud 
— LeVallon  cried: 

"Their  little  personal  loves!  They  cannot  understand!" 
He  bore  Nayan  in  his  arms  as  wind  might  lift  a  loose  flower 
and  whirl  it  aloft.  'Come  back  with  me,  come  home!  The 


160  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Sun  forgets  us  here,  the  Wind  is  silent.  There  is  no  Fire. 
Our  work,  our  service  calls  us."  He  turned  to  Fillery. 
"You  too.  Come!" 

His  voice  boomed  like  a  thundering  wind  against  the 
astonished  frightened  faces  staring  at  him.  It  rose  to  a 
cry  of  intense  emotion:  "We  are  in  little  exile  here!  In 
our  wrong  place,  cut  off  from  the  service  of  our  gods !  We 
will  go  back!"  He  started,  with  the  girl  flung  across  his 
frame.  He  took  one  stride.  The  others  shuffled  back  with 
one  accord. 

"The  other  summons  at  the  door.  But,  Edward! — you 
— you  too!" 

It  was  Nayan's  voice,  as  the  girl  clung  willingly  to  the 
great  neck  and  arms,  the  voice  of  the  girl  all  loved  and 
worshipped  and  thought  wonderful  beyond  temptation;  it 
was  this  familiar  sound  that  ran  through  the  bewildered, 
startled  throng  like  an  electric  shock.  They  could  not  be- 
lieve their  eyes,  their  ears.  They -stood  transfixed. 

Within  their  circle  stood  LeVallon,  holding  the  girl,  al- 
most embracing  her,  while  she  lay  helpless  with  happiness 
upon  his  huge  enfolding  arms.  He  paused,  looked  round 
at  Fillery  a  moment.  None  dared  approach.  The  men 
gazed,  wondering,  and  with  faculties  arrested;  the  women 
stared,  stock  still,  with  beating  hearts.  All  felt  a  lifting, 
splendid  wonder  they  could  not  understand.  Devonham, 
mute  and  motionless  before  an  inexplicable  thing,  found 
himself  bereft  of  judgment.  Analysis  and  precedent,  for 
once,  both  failed.  He  looked  round  in  vain  for  Khilkoff. 

Fillery  alone  seemed  master  of  himself,  a  look  of  suffer- 
ing and  joy  shone  in  his  face;  one  hand  lay  steady  upon 
LeVallon's  arm. 

Within  the  little  circle  these  three  figures  formed  a 
definite  group,  filling  the  beholders,  for  the  first  time  in 
their  so-called  "psychic"  experience,  with  the  thrill  of  some- 
thing utterly  beyond  their  ken — something  genuine  at  last. 
For  there  seemed  about  the  group,  though  emanating,  as 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  161 

with  shining  power,  from  the  figure  of  LeVallon  chiefly, 
some  radiating  force,  some  elemental  vigour  they  could  not 
comprehend.  Its  presence  made  the  scene  possible,  even 
right. 

"Edward — you  too!  What  is  it,  O,  what  is  it?  There 
are  flowers — great  winds  !  I  see  the  fire !" 

A  searching  tenderness  in  her  tone  broke  almost  beyond 
the  limits  of  the  known  human  voice. 

There  swept  over  the  onlookers  a  wave  of  incredible 
emotion  then,  as  they  saw  LeVallon  move  towards  them, 
as  though  he  would  pass  through  them  and  escape.  He 
seemed  in  that  moment  stupendous,  irresistible.  He  looked 
divine.  The  girl  lay  in  his  arms  like  some  young  radiant 
child.  He  did  not  kiss  her,  no  sign  of  a  caress  was  seen; 
he  did  no  ordinary,  human  thing.  His  towering  figure, 
carrying  his  burden  almost  negligently,  came  out  of  the 
circle  "like  a  tide"  towards  them,  as  one  described  it  later 
— or  as  a  poem  that  appeared  later  in  "Simplicity"  began: 

"With  his  hair  of  wind 

And  his  eyes  of  fire 

And   his    face   of    infinite   desire  .  .  ." 

He  swept  nearer.  They  stirred  again  in  a  confused  and 
troubled  shuffle,  opening  a  way.  They  shrank  back  farther. 
They  shivered,  like  crying  shingle  a  vast  wave  draws  back. 
Only  Fillery  stood  still,  making  no  sign  or  movement ;  upon 
his  face  that  look  of  joy  and  pain — wild  joy  and  searching 
pain — no  one,  perhaps,  but  Devonham  understood. 

"Wind  and  fire !"  boomed  LeVallon's  tremendous  voice. 
"We  return  to  our  divine,  eternal  service.  O  Wind  and 
Fire !  We  come  back  at  last !"  An  immense  rhythm  swept 
across  the  room. 

Then  it  was,  without  announcement  of  word  or  action, 
that  Nayan,  suddenly  leaping  from  the  great  enfolding 
arms,  stood  upright  between  the  two  figures,  one  hand  out- 
stretched towards — Fillery. 


162  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

At  which  moment,  emerging  apparently  from  nowhere, 
Khilkoff  appeared  upon  the  scene.  During  the  music  he 
had  left  the  studio  to  find  certain  sketches  he  wished  to 
show  to  LeVallon;  he  had  witnessed  nothing,  therefore, 
of  what  had  just  occurred.  He  now  stood  still,  staring  in 
sheer  surprise.  The  people  in  a  ring,  gazing  with  excited, 
rapt  expression  into  the  circle  they  thus  formed,  looked 
like  an  audience  watching  some  performance  that  dazed  and 
stupefied  them,  in  which  Fillery,  LeVallon  and  Nayan — 
his  own  daughter — were  the  players.  He  took  ft  for  an 
impromptu  charade,  perhaps,  something  spontaneously 
arranged  during  his  absence.  Yet  he  was  obviously 
staggered. 

As  he  entered,  the  girl  had  just  leaped  from  the  arms 
that  held  her,  and  run  towards  Fillery,  who  stood  erect 
and  motionless  in  the  centre  of  the  circle;  and  LeVallon's 
wild  splendid  cry  in  that  instant  shook  its  grand  music 
across  the  vaulted  room.  So  well  acted,  so  dramatic,  so 
real  was  the  scene  thus  interrupted  that  Khilkoff  stood  star- 
ing in  silence,  thinking  chiefly,  as  he  said  afterwards,  that 
the  young  man's  pose  and  attitude  were  exactly — magnifi- 
cently— what  he  wanted  for  the  figure  of  Fire  and  Wind 
in  his  elemental  group. 

This  enthusiastic  thought,  with  the  attempt  to  engrave 
it  permanently  in  his  memory,  filled  his  mind  completely 
for  an  instant,  when  there  broke  in  upon  it  again  that 
resonant  voice,  half  cry,  half  chant,  vibrating  with  depth 
and  music,  yet  quiet  too: 

"Wind  and  Fire!  My  Wind  and  Fire!  O  Sun — your 
messengers  are  come  for  us!  ...  Oh,  come  with  power 
and  take  us  with  you !  .  .  ."  Its  rhythm  was  gigantic. 

So  extraordinary  was  the  volume,  yet  the  sweetness,  too, 
in  the  voice,  though  its  actual  loudness  was  not  great — 
so  arresting  was  its  quality,  that  Khilkoff,  as  he  put  it  after- 
wards, thought  he  heard  an  entirely  new  sound,  a  sound 
his  ears  had  never  known  before.  He,  like  the  rest  of  the 
astonished  audience,  was  caught  spell-bound.  But  for  an 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  163 

instant  only.  For  at  once  there  followed  another  voice, 
releasing  the  momentary  spell,  and,  with  the  accompanying 
action,  warned  him  that  what  he  saw  was  no  mere  game 
of  acting.  This  was  real. 

"I  hear  that  other  summons  at  the  door!  .  .   " 

Her  hands  were  outstretched,  her  eyes  alight  with  yearn- 
ing, she  was  oblivious  of  everyone  but  Fillery,  LeVallon 
and  herself. 

And  her  father,  then,  breaking  through  the  crowding 
figures,  packed  shoulder  to  shoulder  nearest  to  him,  entered 
the  circle.  His  mind  was  confused,  perhaps,  for  vague 
ideas  of  some  undesirable  hypnotic  influence,  of  some  foolish 
experiment  that  had  become  too  real,  passed  through  it. 
He  knew  one  thing  only — this  scene,  whether  real  or  acted, 
pretence  or  sincere,  must  be  stopped.  The  look  on  his 
daughter's  face — entirely  new  and  strange  to  him — was 
all  the  evidence  he  needed.  He  shouldered  his  way  through 
like  an  angry  bear,  making  inarticulate  noises,  growling. 

But,  before  he  reached  the  actors,  before  Nayan  reached 
Fillery's  side,  and  while  the  voice  of  the  girl  and  of  Le- 
Vallon still  seemed  to  echo  simultaneously  in  the  air,  a  new 
thing  happened  that  changed  the  scene  completely.  In  these 
few  brief  seconds,  indeed,  so  much  was  concentrated,  and 
with  such  rapidity,  that  it  was  small  wonder  the  reports 
of  individual  witnesses  differed  afterwards,  almost  as  if 
each  one  had  seen  a  separate  detail  of  the  crowded  picture. 
Its  incredibility,  too,  bewildered  minds  accustomed  to 
imagined  dreams  rather  than  to  real  action. 

LeVallon,  at  any  rate,  all  agreed,  turned  with  that  ease 
and  swiftness  peculiarly  his  own,  caught  Nayan  again  into 
the  air,  and  with  one  arm  swung  her  back  across  his 
shoulder.  He  moved,  then,  so  irresistibly,  with  a  great 
striding  rush  in  the  direction  of  the  door  into  the  street, 
and  so  rapidly,  that  the  onlookers  once  more  drew  back 
instinctively  pell  mell,  tumbling  over  each  other  in  their 
frightened  haste. 

This,  all  agreed,  had  happened.     One  second  they  saw 


164  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

LeVallon  carrying  the  girl  off,  the  next — a  flash  of  intense 
and  vivid  brilliance  entered  the  big  studio,  flooding  all  detail 
with  a  blaze  of  violent  light.  There  was  a  loud  report, 
there  was  a  violent  shock. 

"The  Messengers !  Our  Messengers !  .  .  ."  The  thunder 
of  LeVallon's  cry  was  audible. 

The  same  instant  this  dazzling  splendour,  so  sparkling 
it  was  almost  painful,  became  eclipsed  again.  There  was 
complete  obliteration.  Darkness  descended  like  a  blow.  An 
inky  blackness  reigned.  No  single  thing  was  visible.  There 
came  a  terrific  splitting  sound. 

The  effect  of  overwhelming  sudden  blackness  was  natural 
enough.  In  every  mind  danced  still  the  vivid  memory  of 
that  last  amazing  picture  they  had  seen:  Khilkoff,  with 
alarmed  face,  breaking  violently  into  the  circle  where  his 
daughter,  Nayan,  swinging  from  those  giant  shoulders, 
looked  back  imploringly  at  Dr.  Fillery,  who  stood  motion- 
less as  though  carved  in  stone,  a  smile  of  curious  happiness 
yet  pain  upon  his  features.  Yet  the  figure  of  LeVallon 
dominated.  His  radiant  beauty,  his  air  of  superb  strength, 
his  ease,  his  power,  his  wild  swiftness.  Something  un- 
earthly glowed  about  him.  He  looked  a  god.  The  extra- 
ordinary idea  flashed  into  Fillery's  mind  that  some  big 
energy  as  of  inter-stellar  spaces  lay  about  him,  as  though 
great  Sirius  called  down  along  his  light-years  of  distance 
into  the  little  tumbled  Chelsea  room. 

This  was  the  picture,  set  one  instant  in  dazzling  violet 
brilliance,  then  drowned  in  blackness,  that  still  hung  shin- 
ing with  intense  reality  before  every  mind. 

The  following  confusion  had  a  moment  of  real  and 
troubling  panic;  women  screamed,  some  fell  upon  their 
knees ;  men  called  for  light ;  various  cries  were  heard ;  there 
was  a  general  roar : 

"To  the  door,  all  men  to  the  door!  He's  controlled! 
There's  an  Elemental  in  him !"  It  was  Povey's  shrill  tones 
that  pierced. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  165 

"Strike  a  match !"  shouted  Kempster.  "The  electric  light 
has  fused.  Stay  where  you  are.  Don't  move — everybody. 

"Lightning,"  the  clear  voice  of  Devonham  was  heard. 
"Keep  your  heads.  It's  only  a  thunderstorm !" 

Matches  were  struck,  extinguished,  lit  again;  a  patch 
of  dim  light  shone  here  and  there  upon  a  throng  of  huddled 
people ;  someone  found  a  candle  that  shed  a  flickering  glare 
upon  the  walls  and  ceiling,  but  only  made  the  shadows 
chiefly  visible.  It  was  an  unreal,  fantastic  scene. 

A  moment  later  there  descended  a  hurricane  gust  of 
wind  against  the  building,  with  splintering  glass  as  though 
from  a  hail  of  bullets,  that  extinguished  candle  and  matches, 
and  plunged  the  scene  again  into  total  darkness.  A  terrific 
clap  of  thunder,  followed  immediately  by  a  rushing  sound 
of  rain  that  poured  in  a  flood  upon  the  floor,  completed 
the  scene  of  terror  and  confusion.  The  huge  north  window 
had  blown  in. 

The  consternation  was,  for  some  moments,  dangerous, 
for  true  panic  may  become  an  unmanageable  thing,  and 
this  panic  was  unquestionably  real.  The  superstitious 
thread  that  lies  in  every  human  being,  stretched  and 
shivered,  beginning  to  weave  its  swift,  ominous  pattern. 
The  elements  dominated  the  human  too  completely  just 
then  even  for  the  sense  of  wonder  that  was  usually  so 
active  in  the  Society's  mental  make-up  to  assert  itself  .in- 
telligently. Most  of  them  lost  their  heads.  All  associated 
that  picture  of  LeVallon  and  the  girl  with  this  terrific 
demonstration  of  overpowering  elemental  violence.  Povey's 
startled  cry  had  given  them  the  lead.  The  human  touch 
thus  added  the  flavour  of  something  both  personal  and 
supernatural. 

Some  stood  screaming,  whimpering,  unable  to  move; 
some  were  numb ;  others  cried  for  help ;  not  a  few  remained 
on  their  knees;  the  name  of  God  was  audible  here  and 
there;  many  collapsed  and  several  women  fainted.  To  one 
and  all  came  the  realization  of  that  panic  fear  which  dis- 


166  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

locates  and  paralyses.  This  was  a  manifestation  of  elemen- 
tal power  that  had  intelligence  somewhere  driving  too 
suggestively  behind  it.  ... 

It  was  Devonham  and  Khilkoff  who  kept  their  heads 
and  saved  the  situation.  The  sudden  storm  was,  indeed, 
of  extreme  violence  and  ferocity;  the  force  of  the  wind, 
with  the  nearness  of  the  terrible  lightning  and  the  con- 
sequent volume  of  the  overwhelming  thunder,  were  certainly 
bewildering.  But  a  thunderstorm,  they  began  to  realize, 
was  a  thunderstorm. 

"Everyone  stay  exactly  where  he  is,"  suddenly  shouted 
Khilkoff  through  the  darkness.  His  voice  brought  comfort. 
"I'll  light  candles  in  the  inner  studio."  He  did  so  a  moment 
later;  the  faint  light  was  reassuring;  a  pause  in  the  storm 
came  to  his  assistance,  the  wind  had  passed,  the  rain  had 
ceased,  there  was  no  more  lightning.  With  a  whispered 
word  to  Devonham,  he  disappeared  through  the  door  into 
the  passage:  "You  look  after  'em;  I  must  find  my  girl." 

"One  by  one,  now,"  called  Devonham.  "Take  careful 
steps !  Avoid  the  broken  glass  !" 

Voices  answered  from  dark  corners,  as  the  inner  room 
began  to  fill;  all  saw  the  candle  light  and  came  to  it  by 
degrees.  "Povey,  Kempster,  Imson,  Father  Collins!  Each 
man  bring  a  lady  with  him.  It's  only  a  thunderstorm.  Keep 
your  heads!" 

The  smaller  room  filled  gradually,  people  with  white  faces 
and  staring  eyes  coining,  singly  or  in  couples,  within  the 
pale  radiance  of  the  flickering  candle  light.  Feet  splashed 
through  pools  of  water;  the  furniture,  the  clothing,  were 
soaked ;  the  heat  in  the  air,  despite  the  great  broken  window, 
was  stifling.  One  or  two  women  were  helped,  some  were 
carried;  there  were  cries  and  exclamations,  a  noise  of 
splintered  glass  being  trodden  on  or  kicked  aside;  drinks 
were  brought  for  those  who  had  fainted ;  order  was  restored 
bit  by  bit.  The  collective  consciousness  resumed  gradually 
its  comforting  sway.  The  herd  found  strength  in  contact. 
A  single  cry — in  a  woman's  voice — "Pan  was  among 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  167 

us!  .  .  ."  was  instantly  smothered,  drowned  in  a  chorus 
of  "Hush !  Hush !"  as  though  a  mere  name  might  bring  a 
repetition  of  a  terror  none  could  bear  again. 

The  entire  scene  had  lasted  perhaps  five  minutes,  possibly 
less.  The  violent  storm  that  had  hung  low  over  London, 
accumulating  probably  for  hours,  had  dissipated  itself  in 
a  single  prodigious  explosion,  and  was  gone.  Through  the 
gaping  north  window,  torn  and  shattered,  shone  the  stars. 
More  candles  were  brought  and  lighted,  food  and  drink 
followed,  a  few  cuts  from  broken  glass  were  attended  to, 
and  calm  in  a  measure  came  back  to  the  battered  and  shaken 
yet  thrilled  and  delighted  Prometheans. 

But  all  eyes  looked  for  a  couple  who  were  not  there ;  a 
hundred  heads  turned  searching,  for  in  every  heart  lay  one 
chief  question.  Yet,  oddly  enough,  none  asked  aloud;  the 
names  of  Nay  an  and  LeVallon  were  not  spoken  audibly; 
some  touch  of  awe,  it  seemed,  clung  to  a  memory  still  burn- 
ing in  each  individual  mind ;  it  was  an  awe  that  none  would 
willingly  revive  just  then.  The  whole  occurrence  had  been 
too  devastating,  too  sudden ;  it  all  had  been  too  real. 

There  was  little  talk,  nor  was  there  the  whispered  dis- 
cussion even  that  might  have  been  expected;  individual 
recovery  was  slow  and  hesitating.  What  had  happened 
lay  still  too  close  for  the  comfort  of  detailed  comparison 
or  analysis  by  word  of  mouth.  With  common  accord  the 
matter  was  avoided.  Discussions  must  wait.  It  would  fill 
many  days  with  wonder  afterwards.  .  .  . 

It  was  with  a  sense  of  general  relief,  therefore,  that  the 
throng  of  guests,  bedraggled  somewhat  in  appearance,  eyes 
still  bright  with  traces  of  uncommon  excitement,  their 
breath  uneven  and  their  attitude  still  nervous,  saw  the  door 
into  the  passage  open  and  frame  the  figure  of  their  return- 
ing host.  He  held  a  lighted  candle.  His  bearded  face 
looked  grim,  but  his  slow  deep  voice  was  quiet  and  reassur- 
ing— he  smiled,  his  words  were  commonplace. 

"You  must  excuse  my  daughter,"  he  said  firmly,  "but 
she  sends  her  excuses,  and  begs  to  be  forgiven  for  not 


168  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

coming  to  bid  you  all  good-night.  The  lightning — the 
electricity — has  upset  her.  I  have  advised  her  to  go  to 
bed." 

A  sigh  of  relief  from  everybody  came  in  answer.  They 
were  only  too  glad  to  take  the  hint  and  go. 

"The  little  impromptu  act  we  had  prepared  for  you  we 
cannot  give  now,"  he  added,  anticipating  questions.  "The 
storm  prevented  the  second  part.  We  must  give  it  another 
time  instead," 


CHAPTER  XIV 

HILKOFF,  Edward  Fillery  and  Paul  Devonham,  be- 
tween  them,  it  seems,  were  wise  in  their  generation. 
The  story  spread  that  the  scene  in  the  Studio  had  been 
nothing  but  a  bit  of  inspired  impromptu  acting,  to  which 
the  coincidence  of  the  storm  had  lent  a  touch  of  unexpected 
conviction  where,  otherwise,  all  would  have  ended  in  a 
laugh  and  a  round  or  two  of  amused  applause. 

The  spreading  of  an  undesirable  story,  thus,  was  to  a 
great  extent  prevented,  its  discussion  remaining  confined, 
chiefly,  among  the  few  startled  witnesses.  Yet  tKe  Prome- 
theans,  of  course,  knew  a  supernatural  occurrence  when 
they  saw  one.  They  were  not  to  be  so  easily  deprived  of 
their  treasured  privilege.  Thrilled  to  their  marrows,  indi- 
vidually and  collectively,  they  committed  their  versions  to 
writing,  drew  up  reports,  compared  notes  and,  generally, 
made  the  feast  last  as  long  as  possible.  It  was,  moreover, 
a  semi-sacred  feast  for  them.  Its  value  increased  porten- 
tously. It  bound  the  Society  together  with  fresh  life.  It 
attracted  many  new  members.  Povey  and  his  committee 
increased  the  subscription  and  announced  an  entrance  fee 
in  addition. 

The  various  accounts  offered  by  the  Members,  curious 
as  these  were,  may  be  left  aside  for  the  moment,  since  the 
version  of  the  occurrence  as  given  by  Edward  Fillery  comes 
first  in  interest.  His  report,  however,  was  made  only  to 
himself;  he  mentioned  it  in  full  to  no  one,  not  even  to 
Paul  Devonham.  He  felt  unable  to  share  it  with  any  living 
being.  Only  one  result  of  his  conclusions  he  shared  openly 
enough  with  his  assistant:  he  withdrew  his  promise. 

Upon  certain  details,  the  two  men  agreed  with  interest 

169 


170  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

— that  everybody  in  the  room,  men  and  women,  were  on 
the  qui  v'we  the  moment  LeVallon  made  his  entrance.  His 
appearance  struck  a  note.  All  were  aware  of  an  unusual 
presence.  Interest  and  curiosity  rose  like  a  vapour,  heads 
all  turned  one  way  as  though  the  same  wind  blew  them, 
there  was  a  buzz  and  murmur  of  whispered  voices,  as 
though  the  figure  of  LeVallon  woke  into  response  the  same 
taut  wire  in  every  heart.  "Who  on  earth  is  that?  What 
is  he?"  was  legible  in  a  hundred  questioning  eyes.  All,  in 
a  word,  were  aware  of  something  unaccustomed. 

Upon  this  detail — and  in  support  of  the  Society's  claim 
to  special  "psychic"  perception,  it  must  be  mentioned — 
Fillery  and  Devonham  were  at  one.  But  another  detail,  too, 
found  them  in  agreement.  It  was  not  the  tempest  that 
caused  the  panic ;  it  was  LeVallon  himself.  Something  about 
LeVallon  had  produced  the  abrupt  and  singular  sense  of 
panic  terror. 

Fillery  was  glad;  he  was  satisfied,  at  any  rate.  The 
transient,  unreal  personality  called  "LeVallon"  had  dis- 
appeared and,  as  he  believed,  for  ever;  a  surface  appari- 
tion after  all,  it  had  been  educated,  superimposed,  the  result 
of  imitation  and  quick  learning,  a  phantom  masquerading 
as  an  intelligent  human  being.  It  was  merely  an  acquired 
surface-self,  a  physical,  almost  an  automatic  intelligence. 
The  deep  nature  underneath  had  now  broken  out.  It  was 
the  sudden  irruption  of  "N.  H."  that  touched  the  subcon- 
scious self  of  everyone  in  the  room  with  its  strange  authentic 
shock.  "N.  H."  was  in  full  possession. 

Towards  this  real  Self  he  felt  attraction,  yearning,  even 
love.  He  had  felt  this  from  the  very  beginning.  Why, 
or  what  it  was,  he  did  not  pretend  to  know  as  yet.  Towards 
"N.  H."  he  reacted  as  towards  his  own  son,  as  to  a  comrade, 
ancient  friend,  proved  intimate  and  natural  playmate  even. 
The  strange  tie  was  difficult  to  describe.  In  himself,  though 
faint  by  comparison,  lay  something  akin  in  sympathy  and 
understanding.  .  .  .  They  belonged  together  in  the  same 


THE  BFJGHT  MESSENGER  171 

unknown  region.  The  girl,  of  course,  belonged  there  too, 
but  more  completely,  more  absolutely,  even  than  himself. 
He  foresaw  the  risks,  the  dangers.  His  heart,  with  a  leap 
of  joy,  accepted  the  responsibilities. 

Unlike  Devonham,  he  had  not  come  that  afternoon  to 
scoff;  his  smile  at  the  vagaries  of  what  his  assistant  called 
"hysterical  psychics"  had  no  bitterness,  no  contempt.  If 
their  excesses  were  pathogenic  often,  he  believed  with 
Lombroso  that  genius  and  hysteria  draw  upon  a  common 
origin  sometimes,  also  that,  from  among  this  unstable 
material,  there  emerged  on  occasions  hints  of  undeniable 
value.  To  the  want  of  balance  was  chiefly  due  the  in- 
effectiveness of  these  hints.  This  class,  dissatisfied  with 
present  things,  kicking  over  the  traces  which  herd  together 
the  dull  normal  crowd  into  the  safe  but  uninteresting  com- 
monplace, but  kicking,  of  course,  too  wildly,  alone  offered 
hints  of  powers  that  might  one  day,  obedient  to  laws  at 
present  unknown,  become  of  value  to  the  race.  They  were 
temperamentally  open  to  occasional,  if  misguided,  inspira- 
tion, and  all  inspiration,  the  evidence  overwhelmingly 
showed,  is  due  to  an  intense,  but  hidden  mental  activity. 
The  hidden  nine-tenths  of  the  self  peeped  out  here  and 
there  periodically.  These  people  were,  at  heart,  alert  to 
new  ideas.  The  herd  instinct  was  weak  in  them.  They 
were  individuals. 

Fillery  had  not  come  to  scoff.  His  chief  purpose  on  this 
particular  occasion  had  been  to  observe  any  reactions  pro- 
duced in  LeVallon  by  the  atmosphere  of  these  unbalanced 
yet  questing  minds,  and  by  the  introduction  to  a  girl,  whose 
beauty,  physical  and  moral,  he  considered  far  far  above 
the  standard  of  other  women.  Iraida  Khilkoff,  as  he  saw 
her,  rose  head  and  shoulders,  like  some  magical  flower  in 
a  fairy-tale,  beyond  her  feminine  kind. 

His  hopes  had  in  both  respects  proved  justified.  Le- 
Vallon was  gone.  "N.  H."  had  swept  up  commandingly 
into  full  possession. 


172  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

If  it  is  the  attitude  of  mind  that  interprets  details  in  a 
given  scene,  it  is  the  heart  that  determines  their  selection. 
Devonham  saw  collective  hallucination,  delusion,  humbug 
— useless  and  undesirable  weeds,  where  his  chief  saw 
strange  imperfect  growths  that  might  one  day  become 
flowers  in  a  marvellous  garden.  That  this  garden  blossomed 
upon  the  sunny  slopes  of  a  lost  Caucasian  valley  had  a 
significance  he  did  not  shirk.  Always  he  was  honest  with 
himself.  It  was  this  symbolic  valley  he  longed  to  people. 
Its  radiant  loveliness  stirred  a  forgotten  music  in  his  heart, 
he  watched  golden  bees  sipping  that  wild  azalea  honey, 
of  which  even  the  natives  may  not  rob  them  without  the 
dangerous  delight  of  exaltation;  his  nostrils  caught  the 
delicious  perfumes,  his  cheek  felt  the  touch  of  happy  winds 
...  as  he  stood  by  the  door  with  Devonham  and  LeVallon, 
looking  round  the  crowded  Chelsea  studio. 

Aware  of  this  association  stirring  in  his  blood,  he  be- 
lieved he  had  himself  well  in  hand;  he  knew  already  in 
advance  that  a  spirit  moved  upon  the  face  of  those  waters 
that  were  his  inmost  self;  he  had  that  intuitive  divination 
which  anticipates  a  change  of  spiritual  weather.  The  wind 
was  rising,  the  atmosphere  lay  prepared,  already  the  flowers 
bent  their  heads  one  way.  All  his  powers  of  self-control 
might  well  be  called  upon  before  the  entertainment  ended. 
Glancing  a  moment  at  LeVallon,  tall,  erect  and  poised  be- 
side him,  he  was  conscious — it  was  an  instant  of  vivid  self- 
revelation — that  he  steadied  himself  in  doing  so.  He 
borrowed,  as  it  were,  something  of  that  poise,  that  calm 
simplicity,  that  potential  energy,  that  modest  confidence. 
Some  latent  power  breathed  through  the  great  stalwart 
figure  by  his  side ;  the  strength  was  not  his  own ;  LeVallon 
emanated  this  power  unconsciously. 

Khilkoff,  as  described,  had  then  led  the  youth  away  to 
see  the  sculpture,  Devonham  was  captured  by  a  Member, 
and  Fillery  found  himself  alone.  He  looked  about  him, 
noticing  here  and  there  individuals  whom  he  knew.  Lady 
Gleeson  he  saw  at  once  on  her  divan  in  the  corner,  with 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  173 

her  cigarette,  her  jewels,  her  glass,  her  background  of 
millions  through  which  an  indulgent  husband  floated  like 
a  shadow.  His  eye  rested  on  her  a  second  only,  then  passed 
in  search  of  something  less  insignificant.  Miss  Lance,  who 
had  heard  of  his  books  and  dared  to  pretend  knowledge 
of  them,  monopolised  him  for  ten  minutes.  A  little  tactful 
kindness  managed  her  easily,  while  he  watched  the  door 
where  LeVallon  had  disappeared  with  Khilkoff,  and  through 
which  Nayan  might  any  moment  now  enter.  Already  his 
thoughts  framed  these  two  together  in  a  picture;  his  heart 
saw  them  playing  hand  in  hand  among  the  flowers  of  the 
Hidden  Valley,  one  flying,  the  other  following,  a  radiance 
of  sunny  fire  and  a  speed  of  lifting  winds  about  them  both, 
yet  he  himself,  oddly  enough,  not  far  away.  He,  too,  was 
somehow  with  them.  While  listening  with  his  mind  to  what 
Miss  Lance  was  saying,  his  heart  went  out  playing  with 
this  splendid  pair.  .  .  .  He  would  not  lose  her  finally,  it 
seemed;  some  subtle  kinship  held  them  together  in  this 
trinity.  The  heart  in  him  played  wild  against  the  mind. 

He  caught  Devonham's  eye  upon  him,  and  a  sudden  smile 
that  Miss  Lance  fortunately  appropriated  to  herself,  ran 
over  his  too  thoughtful  face.  For  Devonham's  attitude 
towards  the  case,  his  original  Notes,  his  obvious  conceal- 
ment of  experiences  in  the  Jura  Mountains,  flashed  across 
him  with  a  flavour  of  something  half  comic,  half  pathetic. 
"With  all  that  knowledge,  with  all  the  accumulation  of 
data,  Paul  stops  short  of  Wonder !"  he  thought  to  himself, 
his  eyes  fixed  solemnly  upon  Miss  Lance's  face.  He  remem- 
bered Coleridge:  "All  knowledge  begins  and  ends  with 
wonder,  but  the  first  wonder  is  the  child  of  ignorance,  while 
the  second  wonder  is  the  parent  of  adoration."  A  thousand 
years,  and  the  dear  fellow  will  still  regard  adoration  as 
hysteria !  He  chuckled  audibly,  to  his  companion's  surprise, 
since  the  moment  was  not  appropriate  for  chuckling. 

Making  his  peace  with  his  neighbour,  he  presently  left 
her  for  a  position  nearer  to  the  door,  Father  Collins  prd- 
viding  the  opportunity. 


174  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Father  Collins,  as  he  was  called,  half  affectionately,  half 
in  awe,  as  of  a  parent  with  a  cane,  was  an  individual.  He 
had  been  evangelical,  high  church,  Anglican,  Roman 
Catholic,  in  turn,  and  finally  Buddhist.  Believing  in  reincar- 
nation, he  did  not  look  for  progress  in  humanity ;  the  planet 
resembled  a  form  at  school — individuals  passed  into  it  and 
out  of  it,  but  the  average  of  the  form  remained  the  same 
The  fifth  form  was  always  the  fifth  form.  Earth's  history 
showed  no  advance  as  a  whole,  though  individuals  did.  He 
looked  forward,  therefore,  to  no  Utopia,  nor  shared  the 
pessimism  of  the  thinkers  who  despaired  of  progress. 

A  man  of  intense  convictions,  yet  open  mind,  he  was 
not  ashamed  to  move.  Before  the  Buddhist  phase,  he  had 
been  icily  agnostic.  He  thought,  but  also  he  felt.  He  had 
vision  and  intuition ;  he  had  investigated  for  himself.  His 
mind  was  of  the  imaginative-scientific  order.  Buddhism, 
his  latest  phase,  attracted  him  because  it  was  "a  scientific, 
logical  system  rather  than  a  religion  based  on  revelation." 
He  belonged  eminently  to  the  unstable.  He  found  no  rest- 
ing place.  He  came  to  the  meetings  of  the  Society  to 
listen  rather  than  to  talk.  His  net  was  far  flung,  catching 
anything  and  everything  in  the  way  of  new  ideas,  experi- 
ments, theories,  beliefs,  especially  powers.  He  tested  for 
himself,  then  accepted  or  discarded.  The  more  extravagant 
the  theory,  the  greater  its  appeal  to  him.  Behind  a  grim, 
even  a  repulsive  ugliness,  he  hid  a  heart  of  milk  and  honey. 
In  his  face  was  nobility,  yet  something  slovenly  ran  through 
it  like  a  streak. 

He  loved  his  kind  and  longed  to  help  them  to  the  light. 
Although  a  rolling  stone,  spiritually,  his  naked  sincerity 
won  respect.  He  was  composed,  however,  of  several  per- 
sonalities, and  hence,  since  these  often  clashed,  he  was 
accused  of  insincerity  too.  The  essay  that  lost  him  his 
pulpit  and  parish,  "The  Ever-moving  Truth,  or  Proof 
Impossible,"  was  the  poignant  confession  of  an  honest  in- 
tellect where  faith  and  unbelief  came  face  to  face  with 
facts.  The  Bishop,  naturally,  preferred  the  room  of 
"Father"  Collins  to  his  company. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  175 

"I  should  like  you  to  meet  my  friend,"  Fillery  mentioned, 
after  some  preliminary  talk.  "He  would  interest  you.  You 
might  help  him  possibly."  He  mentioned  a  few  essential 
details.  "Perhaps  you  will  call  one  day — you  know  my 
address — and  make  his  acquaintance.  His  mind,  owing  to 
his  lonely  and  isolated  youth,  is  tabula  rasa.  For  the  same 
reason,  a  primitive  Nature  is  his  Deity." 

Father  Collins  raised  his  bushy  dark  eyebrows. 

"I  took  note  of  him  the  moment  he  came  in,"  he  replied. 
"I  was  wondering  who  he  was — and  what!  I'll  come  one 
day  with  pleasure.  The  innocence  on  his  face  surprised 
me.  Is  he — may  I  ask  it — friend  or  patient  ?" 

"Both." 

"I  see,"  said  the  other,  without  hesitation.  He  added: 
"You  are  experimenting?" 

"Studying.  I  should  value  the  help — the  view  of  a 
religious  temperament." 

Father  Collins  looked  grim  to  ugliness.  The  touch  of 
nobility  appeared. 

"I  know  your  ideals,  Dr.  Fillery;  I  know  your  work," 
he  said  gruffly.  "In  you  lies  more  true  religion  than  in 
a  thousand  bishops.  I  should  trust  your  treatment  of  an 
unusual  case.  If,"  he  added  slowly,  "I  can  help  him,  so 
much  the  better."  He  then  looked  up  suddenly,  his  manner 
as  if  galvanized :  "Unless  he  can  perhaps  help  us." 

The  words  struck  Fillery  on  the  raw,  as  it  were.  They 
startled  him.  He  stared  into  the  other's  eyes.  "What 
makes  you  think  that?  What  do  you  mean  exactly?" 

Father  Collins  returned  his  gaze  unflinchingly.  He  made 
an  odd  reply.  "Your  friend,"  he  said,  "looks  to  me — like 
a  man  who — might  start  a  new  religion — Nature  for  instance 
— back  to  Nature  being,  in  my  opinion,  always  a  possible 
solution  of  over-civilization  and  its  degeneracy."  The 
streak  of  something  slovenly  crept  into  the  nobility,  smudg- 
ing it,  so  to  speak,  with  a  blur. 

Dr.  Fillery,  for  a  moment,  waited,  listening  with  his 
heart. 


176  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"And  find  a  million  followers  at  once,"  continued  the 
other,  as  though  he  had  not  noticed.  "His  voice,  his  manner, 
his  stature,  his  face,  but  above  all — something  he  brings 
with  him.  Whatever  his  nature,  he's  a  natural  leader.  And 
a  sincere,  unselfish  leader  is  what  people  are  asking  for 
nowadays." 

His  black  bushy  eyebrows  dropped,  darkening  the  grim, 
clean-shaven  face.  "You  noticed,  of  course — you — the 
women's  eyes  ?"  he  mentioned.  "It  isn't,  you  know,  so  much 
what  a  man  says,  nor  entirely  his  looks,  that  excite  favour 
or  disfavour  with  women.  It's  something  he  emanates — 
unconsciously.  They  can't  analyze  it,  but  they  never  fail 
to  recognize  it." 

Fillery  moved  sideways  a  little,  so  that  he  could  watch 
the  inner  studio  better.  The  discernment  of  his  companion 
was  somewhat  unexpected.  It  disconcerted  him.  All  his 
knowledge,  all  his  experience  clustered  about  his  mind  as 
thick  as  bees,  yet  he  felt  unable  to  select  the  item  he  needed. 
The  sunshine  upon  his  Inner  Valley  burned  a  brighter  fire. 
He  saw  the  flowers  glow.  The  wind  ran  sweet  and  magical. 
He  began  to  watch  himself  more  closely. 

"LeVallon  is  an  interesting  being,"  he  admitted  finally, 
"but  you  make  big  deductions  surely.  A  mind  like  yours," 
he  added,  "must  have  its  reasons?" 

"Power,"  replied  the  other  promptly;  "power.  'The 
earlier  generations,'  said  Emerson,  'saw  God  face  to  face; 
we  through  their  eyes.  Why  should  not  we  also  enjoy  an 
original  relation  to  Nature?'  Your  friend  has  this  original 
relation,  I  feel;  he  stands  close — terribly  close — to  Nature. 

He  brings  open  spaces  even  into  this  bargain  sale "  He 

drew  a  deep  breath.  "There  is  a  power  about  him " 

"Perhaps,"  interrupted  the  other. 

"Not  of  this  earth." 

"You  mean  that  literally?" 

"Not  of  this  earth  quite — not  of  humanity,  so  to  speak," 
repeated  Father  Collins  half  irritably,  as  though  his  intel- 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  177 

ligence  had  been  insulted.  "That's  the  best  way  I  can 
describe  how  it  strikes  me.  Ask  one  of  the  women.  Ask 
Nayan,  for  instance.  Whatever  he  is,  your  friend  is 
elemental." 

Like  a  shock  of  fire  the  unusual  words  ran  deep  into 
Fillery's  heart,  but,  at  that  same  instant  a  stirring  of  the 
figures  beyond  the  door  caught  his  attention.  His  main 
interest  revived.  The  inner  door  of  the  private  studio,  he 
thought,  had  opened. 

"Elemental!"  he  repeated,  his  interest  torn  in  two  direc- 
tions simultaneously.  He  looked  at  his  companion  keenly, 
searchingly.  "You — a  man  like  you — does  not  use  such 
words "  He  kept  an  eye  upon  the  inner  studio. 

"Without  meaning,"  the  other  caught  him  up  at  once. 
"No.  I  mean  it.  Nor  do  I  use  such  words  idly  to  a  man 
— Fillery — like  you."  He  stopped.  "He  has  what  you 
have,"  came  the  quick  blunt  statement;  "only  in  your  case 
it's  indirect,  while  in  his  it's  direct — essential." 

They  looked  at  each  other.  Two  minds,  packed  with 
knowledge  and  softened  with  experience  of  their  kind, 
though  from  different  points  of  view,  met  each  other  fairly. 
A  bridge  existed.  It  was  crossed.  Few  words  were  neces- 
sary, it  seemed.  Each  understood  the  other. 

"Elemental,"  repeated  Fillery,  his  pulse  quickening  half 
painfully. 

At  which  instant  he  knew  the  inner  door  had  opened. 
Nayan  had  come  in.  The  same  instant  almost  she  had 
gone  out  again.  So  quick,  indeed,  was  the  interval  be- 
tween her  appearance  and  disappearance,  that  Fillery's 
version  of  what  he  then  witnessed  in  those  few  seconds 
might  have  been  ascribed  by  a  third  person  who  saw  it 
with  him  to  his  imagination  largely.  Imaginative,  at  any 
rate,  the  version  was ;  whether  it  was  on  that  account  unreal 
is  another  matter.  The  swift,  tiny  scene,  however,  no  one 
witnessed  but  himself.  Even  Devonham,  unusually  alert 
with  professional  anxiety,  missed  it ;  as  did  also  the  watch- 


178  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

ful  Lady  Gleeson,  whom  jealousy  made  clairvoyante  almost. 
Khilkoff  and  LeVallon,  standing  sideways  to  the  door,  were 
equally  unaware  that  it  had  opened,  then  quickly  closed 
again.  None  saw,  apparently,  the  radiant,  lovely  outline. 

It  was  a  curtained  door  leading  out  of  the  far  end  of 
the  inner  studio  into  a  passage  which  had  an  exit  to  the 
street;  Fillery  was  so  placed  that  he  could  see  it  over  his 
companion's  shoulder;  Khilkoff,  LeVallon  and  the  little 
group  about  them  stood  in  his  direct  line  of  sight  against 
the  dark  background  of  the  curtain.  The  light  in  this  far 
corner  was  so  dim  that  Fillery  was  not  aware  the  curtained 
door  had  swung  open  until  he  actually  saw  the  figure  of 
Nayan  Khilkoff  framed  suddenly  in  the  clear  space,  the 
white  passage  wall  behind  her.  She  wore  gloves,  hat  and 
furs,  having  come,  evidently,  straight  from  the  street.  Ten 
seconds,  perhaps  twenty,  she  stood  there,  gazing  with  a 
sudden  fixed  intensity  at  LeVallon,  whose  figure,  almost 
close  enough  for  touch,  was  sideways  to  her,  the  face  in 
profile. 

She  stopped  abruptly  as  though  a  shock  ran  through 
her.  She  remained  motionless.  She  stared,  an  expression 
in  her  eyes  as  of  life  momentarily  arrested  by  wild,  glorious, 
intense  surprise.  The  lips  were  parted;  one  gloved  hand 
still  held  the  swinging  curtained  door.  To  Fillery  it  seemed 
as  if  a  flame  leaped  into  her  eyes.  The  entire  face  lit  up. 
She  seemed  spellbound  with  delight. 

This  leap  of  light  was  the  first  sign  he  witnessed.  The 
same  second  her  eyes  lifted  a  fraction  of  an  inch,  changed 
their  focus,  and,  gazing  past  LeVallon,  looked  straight 
across  the  room  into  his  own. 

In  his  mind  at  that  instant  still  rang  the  singular  words 
of  Father  Collins;  in  his  heart  still  hung  the  picture  of 
the  flowered  valley :  it  was  across  this  atmosphere  the  eyes 
of  the  girl  flashed  their  message  like  a  stroke  of  lightning. 
It  came  as  a  cry,  almost  a  call  for  help,  an  audible  message 
whose  syllables  fled  down  the  valley,  yearning  sweet,  yet 
a  tone  of  poignant  farewell  within  the  following  wind.  It 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  179 

was  a  moment  of  delicious  joy,  of  exquisite  pain,  of  a 
blissful,  searching  dream  beyond  this  world.  ... 

He  stood  spellbound  himself  a  moment.  The  look  in 
the  girl's  big  eloquent  eyes  threatened  a  cherished  dream 
that  lay  too  close  to  his  own  life.  He  was  aware  of  collapse, 
of  ruin;  that  old  peculiar  anguish  seized  him.  He  remem- 
bered her  words  in  Baker  Street  a  few  days  before :  "Please 
bring  your  friend" — the  accompanying  pain  they  caused. 
And  now  he  caught  the  echo  on  that  following  wind  along 
the  distant  valley.  The  cry  in  her  eyes  came  to  him: 

"Why — O  why — do  you  bring  this  to  me?  It  must  take 
your  place.  It  must  put  out — You!" 

The  reasoning  and  the  inspirational  self  in  him  knew 
this  momentary  confusion,  as  the  cry  fled  down  the  wind. 

"O  follow,  follow 

Through  the  caverns  hollow 

As  the  song  floats,  thou  pursue 

Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew  .  .  ." 

The  curtained  door  swung  to  again;  the  face  and  figure 
were  no  longer  there;  Nayan  had  withdrawn  quickly, 
noticed  by  none  but  himself.  She  had  gone  up  to  make 
herself  ready  for  her  father's  guests ;  in  a  few  minutes  she 
would  come  down  again  to  play  hostess  as  her  custom 
was.  ...  It  was  so  ordinary.  It  was  so  dislocating.  .  .  . 
For  at  that  moment  it  seemed  as  if  all  the  feminine  forces 
of  the  universe,  whatever  these  may  be,  focused  in  her, 
and  poured  against  him  their  concentrated  stream  to  allure, 
enchant,  subdue.  He  trembled.  He  remembered  Devon- 
ham's  admission  of  the  panic  sense. 

"It's  the  air,"  said  a  voice  beside  him,  "all  this  tobacco 
smoke  and  scent,  and  no  ventilation." 

Father  Collins  was  speaking,  only  he  had  completely  for- 
gotten that  Father  Collins  was  in  the  world.  The  steadying 
hand  upon  his  arm  made  him  realize  that  he  had  swayed  a 
moment. 


180  THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"The  perfume  chiefly,"  the  voice  continued.  "All  this 
cheap  nasty  stuff  these  women  use.  It's  enough  to  sicken 
any  healthy  man.  Nobody  knows  his  own  smell,  they  say." 
He  laughed  a  little. 

Collins  was  tactful.  He  talked  on  easily  of  nothing  in 
particular,  so  that  his  companion  might  let  the  occasion 
slip,  or  comment  on  it,  as  he  wished. 

"Worse  than  incense."  Fillery  gave  him  the  clue  per- 
haps intentionally,  certainly  with  gratitude.  He  made  an 
effort.  He  found  control.  "It  intoxicates  the  imagination, 
doesn't  it?"  That  note  of  sweet  farewell  still  hung  with 
enchanting  sadness  in  his  brain.  He  still  saw  those  yearn- 
ing eyes.  He  heard  that  cry.  And  yet  the  conflict  in  his 
nature  bewildered  him — as  though  he  found  two  persons 
in  him,  one  weeping  while  the  other  sang. 

Father  Collins  smiled,  and  Fillery  then  knew  that  he, 
too,  had  seen  the  girl  framed  in  the  doorway,  intercepted 
the  glance  as  well.  No  shadow  of  resentment  crossed  his 
heart  as  he  heard  him  add:  "She,  too,  perhaps  belongs 
elsewhere."  The  phrase,  however,  brought  to  his  own 
personal  dream  the  conviction  of  another  understanding 
mind.  "As  you  yourself  do,  too,"  was  added  in  a  thrilling 
whisper  suddenly. 

Fillery  turned  with  a  start  to  meet  his  eye.  "But 
where?" 

"That  is  your  problem,"  said  Father  Collins  promptly. 
"You  are  the  expert — even  though  you  think — mistakenly 
— that  your  heart  is  robbed."  His  voice  held  the  sympathy 
and  tenderness  of  a  woman  taught  by  suffering.  The 
nobility  was  in  his  face  again,  untarnished  now.  His  words, 
his  tone,  his  manner  caught  Fillery  in  amazement.  It  did 
not  surprise  him  that  Father  Collins  had  been  quick  enough 
to  understand,  but  it  did  surprise  him  that  a  man  so 
entangled  in  one  formal  creed  after  another,  so  netted  by 
the  conventional  thought  of  various  religious  Systems,  and 
therefore  stuffed  with  old,  rigid,  commonplace  ideas — it 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  181 

did,  indeed  surprise  him  to  feel  this  sudden  atmosphere 
of  vision  and  prophecy  that  abruptly  shone  about  him.  The 
extravagant,  fantastic  side  of  the  man  he  had  forgotten. 
"Where?"  he  repeated,  gazing  at  him.  "Where,  indeed?" 
"Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew  .  .  .  perhaps!" 
Father  Collins's  eyebrows  shot  up  as  though  worked  by 
artificial  springs.  His  eyes,  changing  extraordinarily, 
turned  very  keen.  He  seemed  several  persons  at  once.  He 
looked  like — contradictory  description — a  spiritual  Jesuit. 
The  ugly  mouth — thank  Heaven,  thought  Fillery — snowed 
lines  of  hidden  humour.  His  sanity,  at  any  rate,  was 
unquestioned.  Father  Collins  watched  the  planet  with  his 
soul,  not  with  his  brain  alone.  But  which  of  his  many 
personalities  was  now  in  the  ascendancy,  no  man,  least  of 
all  himself,  could  tell.  His  companion,  the  expert  in  him 
automatically  aware  of  the  simultaneous  irruption  and  dis- 
ruption, waited  almost  professionally  for  any  outburst  that 
might  follow.  "Arcades  ambo,"  he  reflected,  making  a  stern 
attempt  to  keep  his  balance. 

"The  subconscious,  remember,  doesn't  explain  every- 
thing," came  the  words.  "Not  everything,"  he  added  with 
emphasis.  "As  with  heredity" — he  looked  keenly  half 
humorously,  half  sympathetically  at  the  doctor — "there  are 
gaps  and  lapses.  The  recent  upheaval  has  been  more  than 
an  inter-tribal  war.  It  was  a  planetary  event.  It  has  shaken 
our  nature  fundamentally,  radically.  The  human  mind  has 
been  shocked,  broken,  dislocated.  The  prevalent  hysteria 
is  not  an  ordinary  hysteria,  nor  are  the  new  powers — per- 
haps— quite  ordinary  either." 

"Mental  history  repeats  itself,"  Fillery  put  in,  now  more 
master  of  himself  again.  "Unbalance  has  always  followed 
upheaval.  The  removal  of  known,  familiar  foundations 
always  lets  in  extravagance  of  wildest  dissatisfaction,  search 
and  question." 

"Upheaval  of  this  kind,"  rejoined  the  other  gravely, 
"there  has  never  been  since  human  beings  walked  the  earth. 


182  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Our  fabulous  old  world  trembles  in  the  balance."  And, 
as  he  said  it,  the  dreamer  shone  in  the  light  below  the  big, 
black  eyebrows,  noticed  quickly  by  his  companion.  "Old 
ideals  have  been  smashed  beyond  recovery.  The  gods  men 
knew  have  been  killed,  like  Tommy,  in  the  trenches.  The 
past  is  likewise  dead,  its  dreams  of  progress  buried  with 
it  by  a  Black  Maria.  The  human  mind  and  heart  stand 
everywhere  empty  and  bereft,  while  their  hungry  and 
unanswered  questions  search  the  stars  for  something  new." 

"Well,  well,"  said  Fillery  gently,  half  stirred,  half  amused 
by  the  odd  language.  "You  may  be  right.  But  mental 
history  has  always  shown  a  desire  for  something  new  after 
each  separate  collapse.  Signs  and  wonders  are  a  recurrent 
hunger,  remember.  In  the  days  of  Abraham,  of  Paul,  of 
Moses  it  was  the  same." 

"Questions  to-day,"  replied  the  other,  "are  based  on  an 
immense  accumulated  knowledge  unknown  to  Moses  or  to 
Abraham's  time.  The  phenomenon,  I  grant  you,  is  the  same, 
but — the  shock,  the  dislocation,  the  shattering  upheaval 
comes  in  the  twentieth  century  upon  minds  grounded  in 
deep  scientific  wisdom.  It  was  formerly  a  shock  to  the 
superstitious  ignorance  of  intuitive  feeling  merely.  To-day 
it  is  organized  scientific  knowledge  that  meets  the  earth- 
quake." 

"You  mentioned  gaps  and  lapses,"  said  Fillery,  deeply 
interested,  but  still  half  professionally,  perhaps,  in 
spite  of  his  preoccupations.  "You  think,  perhaps,  those 

gaps ?"  One  eye  watched  the  inner  studio.  The 

unstable  in  him  gained  more  and  more  the  upper  hand. 

"I  mean,"  replied  Father  Collins,  now  fairly  launched 
upon  his  secret  hobby,  evidently  his  qualification  for  mem- 
bership in  the  Society,  "I  mean,  Edward  Fillery,  that  the 
time  is  ripe,  if  ever,  for  a  new  revelation.  If  Man  is  the 
only  type  of  being  in  the  universe,  well  and  good.  We  see 
his  finish  plainly,  for  the  war  has  shown  that  progress  is  a 
myth.  Man  remains,  in  spite  of  all  conceivable  scientific 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  183 

knowledge,  a  savage,  of  low  degree,  irredeemable,  and  in- 
tellect, as  a  reconstructive  force,  but  of  small  account." 

"It  seems  so,  I  admit." 

"But  if" — Father  Collins  said  it  as  calmly  as  though 
he  spoke  of  some  new  food  or  hygienic  treatment  merely 
— "if  mankind  is  not  the  only  life  in  the  universe,  if,  for 
instance,  there  exist — and  why  not? — other  evolutionary 
systems  besides  our  own  somewhat  trumpery  type — other 
schemes  and  other  beings — perhaps  parallel,  perhaps  quite 
different — perhaps  in  more  direct  contact  with  the  sources 
of  life — a  purer  emanation,  so  to  say " 

He  hesitated,  realizing  perhaps  that  in  speaking  to  a 
man  of  Edward  Fillery's  standing  he  must  choose  his  words, 
or  at  least  present  his  case  convincingly,  while  aware  that 
his  inability  to  do  so  made  him  only  more  extravagant  and 
incoherent. 

"Yes,  quite  so,"  Fillery  helped  him,  noting  all  the  time 
the  suppressed  intensity,  the  half -concealed  conviction  of 
an  idee  fixe  behind  the  calmness,  while  the  balance  of  his 
own  attention  remained  concentrated  on  the  group  about 
LeVallon.  "If,  as  you  suggest,  there  are  other  types  of 

life "  He  spoke  encouragingly.  He  had  noticed  the 

slovenly  streak  spread  and  widen,  breaking  down,  as  it 
were,  the  structure  of  the  face.  He  was  aware  also  of  the 
increasing  insecurity  in  himself. 

"Now  is  the  moment,"  cried  the  other;  "now  is  the  time 
for  their  appearance." 

He  turned  as  though  he  had  hit  a  target  unexpectedly. 

"Now,"  he  repeated,  "is  the  opportunity  for  their  manifes- 
tation. The  human  mind  lies  open  everywhere.  It  is  blank, 
receptive,  ready.  On  all  sides  it  waits  ready  and  inviting. 
The  gaps  are  provided.  If  there  is  any  other  life,  it  should 
break  through  and  come  among  us — now!" 

Fillery,  startled,  withdrew  for  the  first  time  his  atten- 
tion from  that  inner  room.  With  keen  eyes  he  gazed  at 
his  companion.  With  an  abrupt,  unpleasant  shock  it  oc- 


184  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

curred  to  him  that  all  he  heard  was  borrowed,  filched,  stolen 
out  of  his  own  mind.  Before  words  came  to  him,  the  other 
spoke : 

"Your  friend,"  he  mentioned  quietly,  but  with  intentional 
significance,  "and  patient." 

"LeVallon !" 

But  it  was  at  this  moment  that  Nayan  Khilkoff,  entering 
again  without  her  hat  and  furs,  had  moved  straight  to  the 
piano,  seated  herself,  and  began  to  sing. 


CHAPTER  XV 

TO  retail  the  following  scene  as  Dr.  Fillery  saw  it  in 
detail  is  not  necessary,  the  sequence  of  acts,  of 
physical  events  being  already  known.  The  reactions  of  his 
heart  and  mind,  however,  have  importance.  What  he  felt, 
thought,  hoped  and  feared,  what  he  believed  as  well,  his 
point  of  view  in  a  word,  remain  essential. 

Edward  Fillery,  being  what  he  was,  witnessed  it  from 
his  own  individual  angle;  his  mind,  with  his  heredity,  his 
soul,  with  its  mysterious  background,  these  held  the  glasses 
to  his  eyes,  adjusting,  as  with  a  Zeiss  instrument,  each  eye 
separately.  In  his  case  the  analyst  and  thinker  checked 
the  unstable  dreamer  with  acute  exactitude.  This  was  his 
special  gift.  He  studied  himself  best  while  studying  others. 
His  sight,  moreover,  was  exceptionally  keen,  his  glasses  of 
consummate  workmanship.  He  saw,  it  seems,  considerably 
beyond  the  normal  range.  He  believed,  at  least,  that  he 
did  so. 

He  saw,  for  instance,  that  the  girl,  while  her  fingers 
ran  over  the  keys  before  she  sang,  searched  the  room  and 
found  LeVallon  in  a  second.  Following  her  rapid  glance, 
he  took  in  the  picture  that  she  also  saw — LeVallon,  coffee 
cup  in  hand,  before  Lady  Gleeson  languishing  on  the  divan, 
and  Devonham  just  beside  them.  LeVallon  was  obviously 
unaware  of  Lady  Gleeson's  presence ;  he  had  forgotten  her 
existence.  Devonham,  a  floor-walker  with  nothing  particular 
to  do  at  the  moment,  looked  uncomfortable  and  ill  at  ease, 
scared  a  little,  fearing  a  scene,  a  possible  outbreak  even. 
The  meaning  of  the  group  was  easily  read.  The  girl  herself, 
undoubtedly,  read  it  clearly  too. 

185 


,186  THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

This  flashed  upon  the  cinema  screen,  and  Fillery  divined 
it  without  the  help  of  tedious  letterpress. 

The  same  instant  he  was  aware  that  the  girl  and  LeVallon 
looked  for  the  first  time  straight  into  each  other's  faces,  and 
that  both  seemed  simultaneously  caught  into  the  air  as 
though  a  star  had  lifted  them.  Not  even  a  question  lay  in 
their  clear  eyes.  It  was  an  instantaneous  understanding, 
so  complete  and  perfect  that  the  expression  of  happy  sur- 
prise was  too  convicing  to  be  missed  even  by  the  slow-witted 
Lady  Gleeson.  Vanity  usually  delays  intelligence,  and  her 
vanity  was  abnormal.  But  she  saw  the  expression  on  the 
two  faces,  and  interpreted  it  aright.  Fillery  noticed  that 
she  squirmed;  she  would  presently,  he  felt  positive,  dis- 
appear. Before  the  singing  ended  he  had  seen  her  slink 
away. 

The  song  began.  He  had  heard  it  before,  "The  Vagrant's 
Epitaph,"  sung  by  the  same  clear,  sweet  voice,  had  felt 
his  heart  stirred  by  the  true  simple  feeling  she  put  into  it. 
He  knew  every  word  and  every  bar;  the  music  was  her 
own.  He  loved  it.  Both  words  and  music  awoke  in  him 
invariably  a  picture  of  his  own  lost  valley,  a  physical  desire 
to  be  over  the  hills  and  far  away  with  the  homeless  liberty 
of  winds  and  stars  and  waters,  and  at  the  same  time,  its 
spiritual  equivalent — a  yearning  that  the  Race  should  dis- 
cover the  immense  fair  region  of  its  greater  hidden  self 
and  enjoy  its  new  powers  without  restraint.  All  this  was 
familiar  to  him.  But  now,  as  she  sang,  there  came  another, 
deeper  meaning  that  sublimated  the  essential  spirit  of  it, 
lifting  it  out  of  the  known  ditch  of  space  and  time.  Never 
yet  had  he  heard  such  yearning  passion,  such  untold  desire 
in  her  voice.  The  physical  vagrancy  changed  subtly,  ex- 
quisitely, to  a  symbol  of  a  vaster  meaning — a  spiritual 
vagrancy  that  suddenly  captured  him  in  bitter  pain.  "Love 
could  not  hold  him,  Duty  forged  no  chain" — as  he  listened 
to  the  sweetness,  struck  him  between  the  joints  of  armour 
he  had  not  realized  before  was  so  insecurely  bound  about 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  187 

him.  The  anguish  of  lonely  souls,  alien  among  their  kind, 
hungry  for  companionship  they  might  not  find,  unclothed, 
uncared  for,  desired  of  none  and  understanding  none — 
this  rose  tumultuously  in  his  blood.  "The  wide  seas  and 
the  mountains  called  him  .  .  ."  the  words  and  music  pierced 
him  like  a  flame.  "Revel  might  hold  him  for  a  little 
space  .  .  ." — her  voice  made  it  sound  like  a  description  of 
man's  brief  moment  on  the  whirling  planet,  tasting  adven- 
ture with  men  and  women,  playing  a  moment  with  love 
and  hope  and  fear,  till,  "turning  past  the  laughter  and  the 
lamps,"  he  heard  that  "other  summons  at  the  door." 

This  bigger  version,  this  deeper  meaning,  caught  at  him 
with  power  as  he  heard  the  song  in  the  sweet,  familiar  voice, 
and  realized  in  a  flash  that  what  he  felt  faintly  LeVallon 
felt  terrifically.  His  own  detachment  was  a  pose,  a  shadow, 
at  best  a  bodiless  yearning;  in  LeVallon  it  was  a  reality 
of  consuming  fire.  Also  it  was  an  explanation  of  the  girl's 
own  singular  aloofness  from  the  world  of  admiring  men. 
Both  belonged,  as  Father  Collins  put  it,  "elsewhere." 

He  watched  them.  LeVallon's  eyes,  he  saw,  remained 
fixed  and  motionless  on  the  singer;  her  own  did  not  leave 
the  notes  for  a  single  moment ;  the  words  and  music  poured 
into  the  room  like  a  shower  of  dancing  silver.  The  per- 
sonality of  the  girl  flowed  out  with  them  to  meet  the  newly- 
found  companion  they  addressed.  An  extraordinary  thing 
then  happened :  to  Fillery  it  almost  seemed  that  there  formed 
then  and  there  between  them  a  new  vehicle — as  it  were,  a 
body — that  gave  expression  to  their  own  great  secret.  Some- 
thing in  each  of  them,  unable  to  manifest  through  their 
minds,  their  brains,  their  earthly  bodies,  formed  for  itself 
an  elastic  subtle  vehicle,  using  the  sound,  the  words,  the 
feeling  for  this  purpose — and  as  literally  as  a  human  spirit 
uses  the  familiar  physical  body  for  its  manifestation. 

The  experience  was  amazing,  but  it  was  real.  He  watched 
it  carefully.  In  the  room  about  him,  formed  on  the  waves 
of  this  sweet  singing,  shaped  by  feeling  that  found  normally 


188  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

no  other  expression,  inspired  by  emotions,  yearnings,  desires 
alien  to  their  normal  kind,  these  two  created  between  them 
a  new  vehicle  or  body  that  could  and  did  express  all  this. 

They  heard  that  "other  summons  at  the  door.  .  .  ."  And 
they  were  off. 

Yet  he,  too,  heard  the  summons,  and  in  the  depths  of 
his  being  he  answered  to  it.  His  essential  weakness,  wearing 
the  guise  of  strength,  rose  naked.  .  .  . 

These  thoughts  and  feelings  lay  unexpressed,  perhaps 
— too  deep  actually,  too  remote  from  any  experience  he 
had  yet  known,  to  find  actual  words,  even  in  his  mind. 
What  did  find  expression,  in  thought  at  any  rate,  was  that, 
before  his  very  eyes,  he  witnessed  the  transfiguring  change 
come  over  Nayan.  Like  some  flower  that  has  been  growing 
in  the  shade,  then  meets  the  flood  of  sunshine  for  the  first 
time,  she  knew  a  fresh  tide  of  life  sweep  over  her  entire 
being.  She  seemed  to  blossom,  breaking  almost  into  flower 
and  fruit  before  his  very  eyes,  as  though  sun  and  wind 
brought  her  into  a  sudden  bloom  of  exquisite  maturity.  He 
was  aware  of  rich,  deep  purple,  the  faint  gold  of  fruits  and 
flowers,  the  creamy  softness  of  a  rose,  the  amber  of  wild 
grapes  bathed  in  sparkling  dew.  The  luscious  promise  of 
the  Spring  matured  about  her  whole  presentment  into  full 
summer  glory.  And  it  was  the  sun  and  wind  of  LeVallon's 
enigmatic,  stimulating  presence  close  to  her  that  caused  the 
miracle.  The  essential  flower  of  her  life  poured  forth  to 
meet  his  own,  as  he  had  always  felt  it  must.  LeVallon's 
was  the  mighty  wind  that  lifted  her,  was  the  sun  in  whose 
heat  she  basked,  expanded,  soared.  She  experienced  a 
strange  increase  of  her  natural  vitality  and  being.  Her 
consciousness  knew  an  abrupt  intensification. 

The  signs,  in  that  brief  moment,  were  as  clear  to  Fillery's 
divining  heart  as  though  he  read  them  in  black  printed 
letters  on  a  page  of  whitest  paper.  He  knew  the  cipher  and 
the  code.  He  watched  the  signals  flash.  They  had  not  even 
spoken,  yet  the  relationship  was  established  beyond  doubt. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  189 

He  witnessed  the  first  exchange;  the  wireless  message  of 
joy  and  sympathy  that  flashed  he  intercepted. 

Through  his  extremely  rapid  mind,  as  he  watched,  poured 
memories,  reflections,  judgments  in  concentrated  form,  yet 
calmly,  steadily,  though  against  a  background  of  deep  and 
troubled  emotion.  There  seemed  actually  a  disruption  of 
his  personality.  Father  Collins,  standing  beside  him,  divined 
nothing,  he  believed,  of  his  agitation,  standing,  mere  figure 
of  a  man,  listening  to  the  music  with  attentive  pleasure; 
at  least,  he  gave  no  outward  sign.  .  .  . 

The  song  drew  to  its  close.  Once  Nayan  raised  her  eyes, 
instantly  finding  those  of  LeVallon  across  the  room,  then 
shifting  again  for  a  fleeting  second  with  a  rapidly  changing 
focus  to  his  own.  He  met  them  without  a  quiver ;  he  caught 
again  her  tender,  searching  question;  he  sent  no  answer 
back. 

In  his  own  heart  burned,  however,  a  score  of  questions 
that  beat  against  his  soul  for  answers.  What  was  it  that 
each  had  found  thus  intuitively  within  the  other?  Was  it 
her  maternal  instinct  only  that  was  reached  as  with  all  other 
men  hitherto,  was  it  at  last  the  woman  in  her  that  leaped 
towards  its  own  divine,  creative  sun,  or  was  it  that  hidden, 
nameless  aspect  of  her  which  had  never  yet  found  a  vehicle 
for  manifestation  among  her  own  kind  and  had  therefore 
remained  hitherto  unexpressed — bodiless? 

The  answer  to  this  he  found  easily  enough.  No  jealousy 
stirred ;  pain  for  himself  had  been  long  ago  uprooted.  Yet 
pain  of  a  kind  he  felt.  Would  LeVallon  injure,  drag  her 
down,  bring  suffering,  perhaps  of  an  atrocious  sort,  into 
her  hitherto  so  innocent  life?  Was  she  yet  qualified  to 
withstand  the  fierce  fire,  the  rushing  wind,  that  the  full 
force  of  his  strange  nature  must  bring  to  bear  upon  her? 

His  questions  went  prophesying,  flying  like  swift  birds 
to  such  great  distances  that  no  audible  answers  could  return. 
His  pain,  at  any  rate,  chiefly  was  for  her.  He  divined  that 
she  was  frightened,  yet  exhilarated,  before  the  unexpected 


190  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

apparition  of  an  unusual  presence,  Accustomed  to  smaller 
jets  of  admiration  from  smaller  men,  this  deep  flood  over- 
whelmed her.  This  motionless  figure  watching  her  among 
the  shadows,  listening  to  her  singing,  devouring  her  beauty 
with  an  innocence,  power,  worship  she  had  never  yet  en- 
countered— could  she,  Fillery  asked  himself,  withstand  its 
elemental  flood  and  not  be  broken  by  its  waves  ? 

For  at  the  back  of  all  his  questions,  haunting  his  prophe- 
cies, filling  his  hopes  and  fears  with  substance,  stood  one 
outstanding  certainty: 

The  motionless  figure  in  the  shadows  was  not  LeVallon. 
It  was  "N.  H." 

The  thing  he  had  expected  had  now  happened.  Instinc- 
tively he  turned  to  find  his  colleague. 

For  what  followed,  Fillery,  of  course,  was  as  unprepared 
as  anyone.  In  some  way,  difficult  to  describe,  the  whole 
thing  had  a  strangely  natural,  almost  an  inevitable  touch. 
The  exaggeration  that  others  felt  he  was  not  conscious  of. 
He  never,  for  a  single  moment,  lost  his  head.  The  wonder 
of  the  elemental  violence  appealed  and  stimulated  without 
once  touching  the  sense  of  fear,  much  less  of  panic,  in  him. 

Searching  for  Devonham's  familiar  figure,  he  found  it 
in  the  seat  that  Lady  Gleeson  had  vacated  shortly  before, 
but  the  face  turned  away  towards  the  inner  room,  so  that 
it  was  not  possible  to  catch  his  eye.  It  was  an  attentive, 
critical,  almost  anxious  expression  his  chief  surprised,  and 
while  a  faint  smile  perhaps  flitted  across  his  own  mouth, 
he  became  aware  that  Father  Collins — he  had  again  com- 
pletely forgotten  his  proximity — was  staring  with  a  curious 
intentness  at  him.  The  same  instant  the  song  came  to  an 
end.  Into  the  brief  pause  of  a  second  before  the  applause 
burst  forth,  Father  Collins's  voice  was  suddenly  audible  in 
his  ear: 

"LeVallon's  gone,"  Fillery  was  saying  to  himself,  "  'N. 
H.'  is  in  control,"  when  his  neighbour's  words  broke  in. 
The  two  sentences  were  simultaneously  in  his  mind: 

"A  man  in  his  own  place  is  the  Ruler  of  his  Fate!" 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  191 

And  Fillery's  astonishment  was  only  equalled  by  the  fact 
that  the  grim  face  was  soft  with  sympathy,  and  that  in  the 
eyes  shone  moisture  that  was  close  to  tears.  Before  he 
could  reply,  however,  the  applause  burst  forth,  making  an 
uproar  against  which  no  voice  could  possibly  contend.  The 
subsequent  events,  following  so  swiftly,  made  rejoinder 
equally  out  of  the  question,  nor  did  he  see  Father  Collins 
again  that  evening. 

These  Fillery  witnessed  much  as  already  described  through 
Devonham's  eyes.  The  storm,  the  panic  took  place  as  told. 
Yet  a  detail  here  and  there  belong  to  Fillery's  version,  for 
they  were  a  part  of  his  own  being.  He  had,  for  instance, 
a  warning  that  something  was  about  to  happen,  although 
warning  seems  not  quite  the  faithful  word.  He  saw  the 
Valley  for  one  fleeting  second,  the  three  familiar  figures, 
Nayan,  "N.  H.,"  himself,  flying  through  the  bright  sunshine 
before  a  wind  that  stirred  a  million  flowers.  In  the  farthest 
possible  background  of  his  mind  it  shone  an  instant.  The 
shutter  dropped  again,  it  vanished. 

Yet  enough  to  set  him  on  the  alert.  Into  the  air  about 
him,  into  his  heart  as  well,  fell  an  exhilarating  and  immense 
refreshment.  It  rose,  as  it  were,  from  the  most  deeply 
submerged  portion  of  his  own  hidden  being,  now  stirred, 
even  actually  summoned,  into  activity. 

The  shutter  meanwhile  rose  and  fell  and  rose  again;  the 
Valley  reappeared  and  vanished,  then  reappeared  again. 

For  the  truth  came  smashing  against  him — smashing  his 
being  open,  and  bursting  the  doors  of  his  carefully  in- 
structed, carefully  guarded  nature.  The  doors  flung  from 
their  hinges  and  a  blinding  light  poured  in  and  flooded  the 
strangest  possible  hidden  corners. 

He  saw  what  followed  with  an  accuracy  of  observation 
impossible  to  anyone  else,  with  an  intimate  sympathy  the 
others  could  not  feel — because  he  himself  took  part  in  the 
entire  scene.  But  the  scene,  for  him,  was  not  the  Chelsea 
studio  with  its  tobacco  smoke  and  perfume,  it  was  the 
Caucasian  valley  whence  his  own  blood  derived.  Clean, 


192  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

fragrant  winds  swept  past  him  across  mighty  space.  The 
walls  melted  into  distances  of  forest  and  mountain  peaks, 
the  ceiling  was  a  dome  of  stainless  blue,  the  floor  ran  deep 
in  flowers.  A  drenching  sunshine  of  crystal  purity  bathed 
the  world.  It  was  across  bright  emerald  turf  that  he  saw 
"X.  H."  dance  forward  like  a  wind  of  power,  cry  with  a 
joyful  resonant  voice  to  the  radiant  girl  who  stood  laughing, 
half  hiding,  yet  at  the  same  time  beckoning,  that  she  should 
fly  with  him.  He  caught  and  lifted  her,  her  hair,  the  white- 
ness of  her  skin  flashing  in  the  sun  like  some  marvellous 
bird  in  the  act  of  taking  wing,  for  before  he  had  touched  her 
she  leapt  through  the  air  to  meet  his  outstretched  arms. 
Yet  one  hand,  one  silvery  arm,  waved  towards  himself, 
towards  Fillery;  their  fingers  met  and  clasped;  the  three 
of  them,  three  dancing,  free  and  joyful  figures,  fled  like 
the  wind  across  the  enormous  mountains,  but  fled,  he  knew 
beyond  all  question — home. 

He  saw  this  in  the  space  of  those  few  seconds  in  which 
Nayan  was  swung  over  the  youth's  shoulders  beside  the 
piano.  The  two  scenes  ran  parallel,  as  it  were,  before  his 
eyes,  outer  and  inner  sight  keeping  equal  pace  together. 
His  balance  and  judgment  here  were  never  once  disturbed. 
In  the  studio:  he  had  just  introduced  LeVallon  to  the  girl 
and  the  latter  had  caught  her  up.  In  the  valley:  she  had 
leapt  into  his  arms  and  the  three  of  them  were  off. 

It  was  this  inner  interpretation,  keeping  always  level  pace 
with  what  was  happening  outwardly,  that  furnished  Fillery 
with  the  hint  of  an  astounding  explanation.  The  figure 
in  the  valley,  it  flashed  to  him,  was,  of  course,  "N.  H." 
in  all  his  natural  splendour,  but  a  figure  unknown  surely 
to  all  records  of  humanity  as  such.  Here  danced  and  sang 
a  happy  radiant  being,  by  whom  the  limitations  of  the 
human  species  were  not  experienced,  even  if  the  species  were 
familiar  to  him  at  all.  A  being  from  another  system,  an- 
other evolution,  an  elemental  being,  whose  ideal,  develop- 
ment, mode  of  existence,  were  not  those  of  men  and  women. 
"N.  H."  was  not  a  human  being,  a  human  soul,  a  human 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  193 

spirit  He  belonged  elsewhere  and  otherwise.  Under  the 
guise  of  LeVallon  he  had  drifted  in.  He  inhabited  LeVal- 
lon's  frame. 

In  the  Studio,  at  this  instant,  Fillery  heard  him  using 
the  singular  words  already  noted,  and  in  the  Studio  they 
sounded,  indeed,  senseless,  foolish,  even  mad.  It  was,  he 
realized,  an  attempt  to  stammer  in  human  language  some 
meaning  that  lay  beyond,  outside  it.  In  the  Valley,  however, 
and  at  the  same  moment,  they  sounded  natural  and  true. 
The  evolutionary  system  to  which  "N.  H."  belonged,  from 
which  he  had  in  some  as  yet  unknown  manner  passed  into 
humanity,  but  to  which,  though  almost  entirely  forgotten, 
he  yearned  with  his  whole  being  to  return — this  other  system 
had,  it  seemed,  its  own  conditions,  its  own  methods  of 
advance,  its  ideals  and  its  duties.  Were,  then,  its  inhabitants 
— this  flashed  upon  him  in  the  delicious  wind  and  sunshine 
— the  workers  in  what  men  call  the  natural  kingdoms,  the 
builders  of  form  and  structure,  the  directing  powers  that 
expressed  themselves  through  the  elemental  energies  every- 
where behind  the  laws  of  Nature?  Was  this  their  tireless 
and  wondrous  service  in  the  planet,  in  the  universe  itself? 

"N.  H."  called  the  girl  to  service,  not  to  personal  love. 
Alone,  cut  off  from  his  own  kind,  alien  and  derelict  amid 
the  conditions  of  a  humanity  strange,  perhaps  unknown 
to  him,  he  sought  companionship  where  he  could.  Drawn 
instinctively  to  the  more  impersonal  types,  such  as  Fillery 
and  the  girl,  he  felt  there  the  nearest  approach  to  what  he 
recognized  as  his  own  kind:  their  ideal  of  selfless  service 
was  a  beacon  that  he  understood:  he  would  return  to  his 
own  kingdom,  carrying  them  both  with  him.  From  some- 
where, at  any  rate,  this  all  flashed  into  his  too  willing 
mind.  .  .  . 

At  which  second  precisely  in  Fillery's  valley-vision,  Khil- 
koff  entered,  and — yet  before  he  could  take  action — the 
lightning  struck  and  the  sudden  explosion  of  the  ferocious 
storm  blackened  out  both  the  outer  and  the  inner  scene. 

The  shock  of  elemental  violence,  the  astounding  revelation 


194  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

as  well  that  an  entirely  new  type  had  possibly  come  within 
his  ken,  this,  combined  with  the  emotional  disturbance 
caused  by  the  change  produced  in  Nayan,  seemed  enough 
to  upset  the  equilibrium  of  even  the  most  balanced  mind. 
The  darkness  added  its  touch  of  helplessness  besides.  Yet 
Fillery  never  for  a  moment  lost  his  head.  Two  natures  in 
him,  cause  of  his  radical  instability,  merged  for  a  moment 
in  amazing  harmony.  The  panic  now  dominating  all  about 
him  seemed  so  small  a  thing  compared  to  the  shattering 
discovery  life  had  just  offered  to  him.  Across  it,  finding 
his  way  past  kneeling  women  and  shrieking  girls,  drenched 
to  the  skin  by  the  flood  of  entering  rain,  moving  over 
splintered  glass,  he  found  the  figure  he  sought,  as  though 
by  some  instinctive  sympathy.  They  came  together  in  the 
darkness.  Their  hands  met  easily.  A  moment  later  they 
were  in  the  street,  and  "N.  H.'s"  instinctive  terror  amid  the 
sheets  of  falling  water,  an  element  hostile  to  his  own  natural 
fire,  made  it  a  simple  matter  to  get  him  home — in  Lady 
Gleeson's  motor  car. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

WHEN  relative  order  had  been  restored,  Devonham 
realized,  of  course,  that  his  colleague  had  cleverly 
spirited  away  their  "patient";  also  that  the  sculptor  had 
carried  off  his  daughter.  Relieved  to  escape  from  the  at- 
mosphere of  what  he  considered  collective  hysteria,  he  had 
borrowed  mackintosh  and  umbrella,  and  declining  several 
offers  of  a  lift,  had  walked  the  four  miles  to  his  house  in 
the  rain  and  wind.  The  exercise  helped  to  work  off  the 
emotion  in  him;  his  mind  cleared  healthily;  personal  bias 
gave  way  to  honest  and  unprejudiced  reflection;  there  was 
much  that  interested  him  deeply,  at  the  same  time  puzzled 
and  bewildered  him  beyond  anything  he  had  yet  experienced. 
He  reached  the  house  with  a  mind  steady  if  unsatisfied; 
but  the  emotions  caused  by  prejudice  had  gone.  His  main 
anxiety  centred  about  his  chief. 

He  was  glad  to  notice  a  light  in  an  upper  window,  for 
it  meant,  he  hoped,  that  LeVallon  was  now  safely  home. 
While  his  latchkey  sought  its  hole,  however,  this  light  was 
extinguished,  and  when  the  door  opened,  it  was  Fillery 
himself  who  greeted  him,  a  finger  on  his  lips. 

"Quietly !"  he  whispered.  "I've  just  got  him  to  bed  and 
put  his  light  out.  He's  asleep  already."  Paul  noticed  his 
manner  instantly — its  happiness.  There  was  a  glow  of 
mysterious  joy  and  wonder  in  his  atmosphere  that  made  the 
other  hostile  at  once. 

They  went  together  towards  that  inner  room  where  so 
often  together  they  had  already  talked  both  moon  and  sun 
to  bed.  Cold  food  lay  on  the  table,  and  while  they  satisfied 
their  hunger,  the  rain  outside  poured  down  with  a  steady 
drenching  sound.  The  wind  had  dropped.  The  suburb 
lay  silent  and  deserted.  It  was  long  past  midnight.  The 

195 


196  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

house  was  very  still,  only  the  occasional  step  of  a  night- 
nurse  audible  in  the  passages  and  rooms  upstairs.  They 
would  not  be  disturbed. 

"You  got  him  home  all  right,  then?"  Paul  asked  presently, 
keeping  his  voice  low. 

He  had  been  observing  his  friend  closely;  the  evident 
pleasure  and  satisfaction  in  the  face  annoyed  him ;  the  light 
in  the  eyes  at  the  same  time  profoundly  troubled  him.  Not 
only  did  he  love  his  chief  for  himself,  he  set  high  value 
on  his  work  as  well.  It  would  be  deplorable,  a  tragedy, 
if  judgment  were  destroyed  by  personal  bias  and  desire. 
He  felt  uneasy  and  distressed. 

Fillery  nodded,  then  gave  an  account  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, but  obviously  an  account  of  outward  events  merely ; 
he  did  not  wish,  evidently,  to  argue  or  explain.  The  strong, 
rugged  face  was  lit  up,  the  eyes  were  shining;  some  inner 
enthusiasm  pervaded  his  whole  being.  Evidently  he  felt 
very  sure  of  something — something  that  both  pleased  and 
stimulated  him. 

His  account  of  what  had  happened  was  brief  enough, 
little  more  than  a  statement  of  the  facts. 

Finding  himself  close  to  LeVallon  when  the  darkness 
came,  he  had  kept  hold  of  him  and  hurried  him  out  of  the 
house  at  once.  The  sudden  blackness,  it  seemed,  had  made 
LeVallon  quiet  again,  though  he  kept  asking  excitedly  for 
the  girl.  When  assured  that  he  would  soon  see  her,  he 
became  obedient  as  a  lamb.  The  absence  of  light  apparently 
had  a  calming  influence.  They  found,  of  course,  no  taxis, 
but  commandeered  the  first  available  private  car,  Fillery 
using  the  authoritative  influence  of  his  name.  And  it  was 
Lady  Gleeson's  car,  Lady  Gleeson  herself  inside  it.  She 
had  thought  things  over,  put  two  and  two  together,  and 
had  come  back.  Her  car  might  be  of  use.  It  was.  For 
the  rain  was  falling  in  sheets  and  bucketfuls,  the  road  had 
become  a  river  of  water,  and  Fillery's  automobile,  ordered 
for  an  hour  later,  had  not  put  in  an  appearance.  It  was 
the  rain  that  saved  the  situation.  .  .  . 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  197 

An  exasperated  expression  crossed  Devonham's  face  as 
he  heard  this  detail  emphasized.  He  had  meant  to  listen 
without  interruption.  The  enigmatical  reference  to  the  rain 
proved  too  much  for  him. 

"Why  'the  rain'?    What  d'you  mean  exactly,  Edward?" 

"Water,"  was  the  reply,  made  in  a  significant  tone  that 
further  annoyed  his  listener's  sense  of  judgment.  "You 
remember  the  Channel,  surely!  Water  and  fire  mutually 
destroy  each  other.  They  are  hostile  elements." 

There  was  a  look  almost  of  amusement  on  his  face  as 
he  said  it.  Devonham  kept  a  tight  hold  upon  his  tongue. 
It  was  not  impatience  or  surprise  he  felt,  though  both  were 
strong;  it  was  perhaps  sorrow. 

"And  so  Lady  Gleeson  drove  you  home?" 

He  waited  with  devouring  interest  for  further  details. 
The  throng  of  questions,  criticisms  and  emotions  surging 
in  him  he  repressed  with  admirable  restraint. 

Lady  Gleeson,  yes,  had  driven  the  party  home.  Fillery 
made  her  sit  on  the  back  seat  alone,  while  he  occupied  the 
front  one,  LeVallon  beside  him,  but  as  far  back  among  the 
deep  cushions  as  possible.  The  doctor  held  his  hand.  At 
any  other  time,  Devonham  could  have  laughed ;  but  he  saw 
no  comedy  now.  Lady  Gleeson,  it  seemed,  was  awed  by 
the  seriousness  of  the  "Chief,"  whom,  even  at  the  best  of 
times,  she  feared  a  little.  Her  vanity,  however,  persuaded 
her  evidently  that  she  was  somehow  the  centre  of  interest. 

Yet  Devonham,  as  he  listened,  had  difficulty  in  persuad- 
ing himself  that  he  was  in  the  twentieth  century,  and  that 
the  man  who  spoke  was  his  colleague  and  a  man  of  the  day 
as  well. 

"LeVallon  talked  little,  and  that  little  to  himself  or  to 
me.  He  seemed  unaware  that  a  third  person  was  present 
at  all.  Though  quiet  enough,  there  was  suppressed  ve- 
hemence still  about  him.  He  said  various  things:  that  'she 
belonged  to  us/  for  instance;  that  he  'knew  his  own';  that 
she  was  'filled  with  fire  in  exile';  and  that  he  would  'take 
her  back.'  Also  that  I,  too,  must  go  with  them  both.  He 


198  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

often  mentioned  the  sun,  saying  more  than  once  that  the 
sun  had  'sent  its  messengers/  Obviously,  it  was  not  the 
ordinary  sun  he  referred  to,  but  some  source  of  central 
heat  and  fire  he  seems  aware  of " 

"You,  I  suppose,  Edward,"  put  in  his  listener  quickly, 
"said  nothing  to  encourage  all  this?  Nothing  that  could 
suggest  or  stimulate?" 

Fillery  ignored,  even  if  he  noticed,  the  tone  of  the  ques- 
tion. "I  kept  silence  rather.  I  said  very  little.  I  let  him 
talk.  I  had  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  woman,  too." 

"You  certainly  had  your  hands  full — a  dual  personality 
and  a  nymphomaniac." 

"She  helped  me,  without  knowing  it.  All  he  said  about 
the  girl,  she  evidently  took  to  herself.  When  he  begged 
me  to  keep  the  water  out,  she  drew  the  window  up  the 
last  half-inch.  .  .  .  The  water  frightened  him;  she  was 
sympathetic,  and  her  sympathy  seemed  to  reach  him,  though 
I  doubt  if  he  was  aware  of  her  presence  at  all  until  the 
last  minute  almost " 

"And  'at  the  last  minute'  ?" 

"She  leaned  forward  suddenly  and  took  both  his  hands. 
I  had  let  go  of  the  one  I  held  and  was  just  about  to  open 
the  door,  when  I  heard  her  say  excitedly  that  I  must  let 
her  come  and  see  him,  or  that  he  must  call  on  her;  she 
was  sure  she  could  help  him;  he  must  tell  her  every- 
thing. ...  I  turned  to  look.  .  .  .  LeVallon,  startled  into 
what  I  believe  was  his  first  consciousness  of  her  presence, 
stared  into  her  eyes,  and  leaned  forward  among  his  cushions 
a  little,  so  that  their  faces  were  close  together.  Before  I 
could  interfere,  she  had  flung  her  bare  arms  about  his  neck 
and  kissed  him.  She  then  sat  back  again,  turning  to  me, 
and  repeating  again  and  again  that  he  needed  a  woman's 
care  and  that  she  must  help  and  mother  him.  She  was 
excited,  but  she  knew  what  she  was  saying.  She  showed 
neither  shame  nor  the  least  confusion.  She  tasted — of 
course  with  her  it  cannot  last — a  bigger  world.  She  was 
most  determined." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  199 

"His  reaction?"  inquired  Devonham,  amused  in  spite  of 
his  graver  emotions  of  uneasiness  and  exasperation. 

"None  whatever.  I  scarcely  think  he  realized  he  had 
been  kissed.  His  interest  was  so  entirely  elsewhere.  I 
saw  his  face  a  moment  among  the  white  ermine,  the  bare 
arms  and  jewels  that  enveloped  him."  Fillery  frowned 
faintly.  "The  car  had  almost  stopped.  Lady  Gleeson  was 
leaning  back  again.  He  looked  at  me,  and  his  voice  was 
intense  and  eager:  'Dear  Fillery,'  he  said,  'we  have  found 
each  other,  I  have  found  her.  She  knows,  she  remembers 
the  way  back.  Here  we  can  do  so  little.' 

"Lady  Gleeson,  however,  had  interpreted  the  words  in 
another  way. 

"  'I'll  come  to-morrow  to  see  you,'  she  said  at  once  in- 
tensely. 'You  must  let  me  come,' — the  last  words  addressed 
to  me,  of  course." 

The  two  men  looked  at  one  another  a  moment  in  silence, 
and  for  the  first  time  during  the  conversation  they  ex- 
changed a  smile.  .  .  . 

"I  got  him  to  bed,"  Fillery  concluded.  "In  ten  minutes 
he  was  sound  asleep."  And  his  eyes  indicated  the  room 
overhead. 

He  leaned  back,  and  quietly  began  to  fill  his  pipe.  The 
account  was  over. 

As  though  a  great  spring  suddenly  released  him,  Paul 
Devonham  stood  up.  His  untidy  hair  hung  wild,  his  glasses 
were  crooked  on  his  big  nose,  his  tie  askew.  His  whole 
manner  bristled  with  accumulated  challenge  and  disagree- 
ment. 

"Who?"  he  cried.     "Who?    Edward,  I  ask  you?" 

His  colleague,  yet  knowing  exactly  what  he  meant,  looked 
up  questioningly.  He  looked  him  full  in  the  face. 

"Hush !"  he  said  quietly.    "You'll  wake  him." 

He  gazed  with  happy  penetrating  eyes  at  his  companion. 
"Paul,"  he  added  gently,  "do  you  really  mean  it?  Have 
you  still  the  faintest  doubt?" 

The  moment  had  drama  in  it  of  unusual  kind.    The  con- 


200  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

flict  between  these  two  honest  and  unselfish  minds  was 
vital.  The  moment,  too,  was  chosen,  the  place  as  well — 
this  small,  quiet  room  in  a  commonplace  suburb  of  the 
greatest  city  on  the  planet,  drenched  by  earthly  rain  and 
battered  by  earthly  wind  from  the  heart  of  an  equinoctial 
storm ;  the  mighty  universe  outside,  breaking  with  wondrous, 
incredible  impossibilities  upon  a  mind  that  listened  and  a 
mind  that  could  not  hear ;  and  upstairs,  separated  from  them 
by  a  few  carpenter's  boards,  an  assortment  of  "souls," 
either  derelict  and  ruined,  or  gifted  super-normally,  masters 
of  space  and  time  perhaps,  yet  all  waiting  to  be  healed  by 
the  best  knowledge  known  to  the  race — and  one  among 
them,  about  whom  the  conflict  raged  .  .  .  sound  asleep  .  .  . 
while  wind  and  water  stormed,  while  lightning  fires  lit  the 
distant  horizons,  while  the  great  sun  lay  hidden,  and  dark- 
ness crept  soundlessly  to  and  fro.  .  .  . 

"Have  you  still  the  slightest  doubt,  Paul?"  repeated 
Fillery.  "You  know  the  evidence.  You  have  an  open 
mind." 

Then  Devonham,  still  standing  over  his  Chief,  let  out 
the  storm  that  had  accumulated  in  him  over-long.  He 
talked  like  a  book.  He  talked  like  several  books.  It  seemed 
almost  that  he  distrusted  his  own  personal  judgment. 

"Edward,"  he  began  solemnly — not  knowing  that  he 
quoted — "you,  above  all  men,  understand  the  lower  recesses 
of  the  human  heart,  that  gloomy,  gigantic  oubliette  in  which 
our  million  ancestors  writhe  together  inextricably,  and  each 
man's  planetary  past  is  buried  alive " 

Fillery  nodded  quietly  his  acquiescence. 

"You,  of  all  men,  know  our  packed,  limitless  subter- 
ranean life,"  Devonham  went  on,  "and  its  impenetrable 
depths.  You  understand  telepathy,  'extended  telepathy'  as 
well,  and  how  a  given  mind  may  tap  not  only  forgotten 
individual  memories,  but  memories  of  his  family,  his  race, 
even  planetary  memories  into  the  bargain,  the  memory,  in 
fact,  of  every  being  that  ever  lived,  right  down  to  Adam, 
if  you  will " 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  201 

"Agreed,"  murmured  the  other,  listening  patiently,  while 
he  puffed  his  pipe  and  heard  the  rain  and  wind  "I  know 
all  that.  I  know  it,  at  any  rate,  as  a  possible  theory." 

"You  also  know,"  continued  Devonham  in  a  slightly  less 
strident  tone,  "your  own — forgive  me,  Edward — your  own 
idiosyncrasies,  your  weaknesses,  your  dynamic  accumulated 
repressions,  your  strange  physical  heritage  and  spiritual 
— I  repeat  the  phrase — your  spiritual  vagrancies  towards — 

towards "  He  broke  off  suddenly,  unable  to  find  the 

words  he  wanted. 

"I'm  illegitimate,  born  of  a  pagan  passion,'  mentioned 
the  other  calmly.  "In  that  sense,  if  you  like,  I  have  in  me 
a  'complex'  against  the  race,  against  humanity — as  such." 

He  smiled  patiently,  and  it  was  the  patience,  the  evident 
conviction  of  superiority  that  exasperated  his  cautious, 
accurate  colleague. 

"If  I  love  humanity,  I  also  tolerate  it  perhaps,  for  I  try 
to  heal  it,"  added  Fillery.  "But,  believe  me,  Paul,  I  do 
not  lose  my  scientific  judgment" 

"Edward,"  burst  out  the  other,  "how  can  you  think  it 
possible,  then — that  he  is  other  than  the  result  of  tendencies 
transmitted  by  his  mad  parents,  or  acquired  from  Mason, 
who  taught  him  all  he  knows,  or — if  you  will — that  he  has 
these  hysterical  faculties — supernormal  as  we  may  call  them 
— which  tap  some  racial,  even,  if  you  will,  some  planetary 
past " 

He  again  broke  off,  unable  to  express  his  whole  thought, 
his  entire  emotion,  in  a  few  words. 

"I  accept  all  that,"  said  Fillery,  still  calmly,  quietly,  "but 
perhaps  now — in  the  interest  of  truth" — his  tone  was  grave, 
his  words  obviously  chosen  carefully — "if  now  I  feel  it 
necessary  to  go  beyond  it !  My  strange  heritage,"  he  added, 
"is  even  possibly  a  help  and  guide.  How,"  he  asked,  a  trace 
of  passion  for  the  first  time  visible  in  his  manner,  "shall 
we  venture — how  decide — for  we  are  not  wholly  ignorant, 
you  and  I — between  what  is  possible  and  impossible?  Is 
this  trivial  planet,  then,"  he  asked,  his  voice  rising  suddenly, 
ominously  perhaps,  "our  sole  criterion?  Dare  we  not  ven- 


202  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

ture — beyond — a  little?  The  scientific  mind  should  be  the 
last  to  dogmatize  as  to  the  possibilities  of  this  life  of 
ours.  .  .  ." 

The  authority  of  chief,  the  old  tie  of  respectful  and  affec- 
tionate friendship,  the  admiring  wonder  that  pertained  to 
a  daring  speculator  who  had  often  proved  himself  right  in 
face  of  violent  opposition — all  these  affected  Devonham. 
He  did  not  weaken,  but  for  an  instant  he  knew,  perhaps, 
the  existence  of  a  vast,  incredible  horizon  in  his  friend's 
mind,  though  one  he  dared  not  contemplate.  Possibly,  he 
understood  in  this  passing  moment  a  huger  world,  a  new 
outlook  that  scorned  limit,  though  yet  an  outlook  that  his 
accurate,  smaller  spirit  shrank  from. 

He  found,  at  any  rate,  his  own  words  futile.  "You 
remember,"  he  offered — "  'We  need  only  suppose  the  con- 
tinuity of  our  own  consciousness  with  a  mother  sea,  to 
allow  for  exceptional  waves  occasionally  pouring  over  the 
dam.' " 

"Good,  yes,"  said  Fillery.  "But  that  'mother  sea,'  what 
may  it  not  include?  Dare  we  set  limits  to  it?" 

And,  as  he  said  it,  Fillery,  emotion  visible  in  him,  rose 
suddenly  from  his  chair.  He  stood  up  and  faced  his 
colleague. 

"Let  us  come  to  the  point,"  he  said  in  a  clear,  steady 
voice.  "It  all  lies — doesn't  it? — in  that  question  you 
asked " 

"Who?"  came  at  once  from  Devonham's  lips,  as  he  stood, 
looking  oddly  stiff  and  rigid  opposite  his  Chief.  There  was 
a  touch  of  defiance  in  his  tone.  "Who?"  He  repeated  his 
original  question. 

No  pause  intervened.  Fillery's  reply  came  sharp  and 
firm: 

"  'N.  H.,'  "  he  said. 

An  interval  of  silence  followed,  then,  between  the  two 
men,  as  they  looked  into  each  other's  eyes.  Fillery  waited 
for  his  assistant  to  speak,  but  no  word  came, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  203 

"LeVallon, '  the  older  man  continued,  "is  the  transient, 
acquired  personality.  It  does  not  interest  us.  There  is 
no  real  LeVallon.  The  sole  reality  is — *N.  H.'  " 

He  spoke  with  the  earnestness  of  deep  conviction.  There 
was  still  no  reply  or  comment  from  the  other. 

"Paul,"  he  continued,  steadying  his  voice  and  placing  a 
hand  upon  his  colleague's  shoulder,  "I  am  going  to  ask 
you  to — consider  our  arrangement — cancelled.  I  must " 

Then,  before  he  could  finish  what  he  had  to  say,  the 
other  had  said  it  for  him: 

"Edward,  I  give  you  back  your  promise." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  ever  so  slightly,  but  there 
was  no  unpleasant,  no  antagonistic  touch  now  either  in 
voice  or  manner.  There  was,  rather,  a  graver  earnestness 
than  there  had  been  hitherto,  a  hint  of  reluctant  acquiescence, 
but  also  there  was  an  emotion  that  included  certainly 
affection.  No  such  fundamental  disagreement  had  ever 
come  between  them  during  all  their  years  of  work  together. 
"You  understand,"  he  added  slowly,  "what  you  are  doing 
— what  is  involved."  His  tone  almost  suggested  that  he 
spoke  to  a  patient,  a  loved  patient,  but  one  over  whom  he 
had  no  control.  He  sighed. 

"I  belong,  Paul,  myself  to  the  unstable — if  that  is  what 
you  mean,"  said  his  old  friend  gently,  "and  with  all  of 
danger,  or  of  wonder,  it  involves." 

The  faint  movement  of  the  shoulders  again  was  notice- 
able. "We  need  not  put  it  that  way,  Edward,"  was  the 
quiet  rejoinder;  "for  that,  if  true,  can  only  help  your  in- 
sight, your  understanding,  and  your  judgment."  He 
hesitated  a  moment  or  two,  searching  his  mind  carefully 
for  words.  Fillery  waited.  "But  it  involves — I  think" — 
he  went  on  presently  in  a  firmer  voice — "his  fate  as  well. 
He  must  become  permanently — one  or  other." 

No  pause  followed..  There  was  a  smile  of  curious  happi- 
ness on  Fillery's  face  as  he  instantly  answered  in  a  tone  of 
absolute  conviction: 


*04  THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"There  lies  the  root  of  our  disagreement,  Paul.  There 
is  no  'other.'  I  am  positive  for  once.  There  is  only  one, 
and  that  one  is — 'N.  H.' " 

"Umph!"  his  friend  grunted.  Behind  the  exclamation 
hid  an  attitude  confirmed,  as  though  he  had  come  suddenly 
to  a  big  decision. 

"You  see,  Paul — I  know." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

IT  was  not  long  after  the  scene  in  the  Studio  that  the 
Prometheans  foregathered  at  dinner  in  the  back  room 
of  the  small  French  restaurant  in  Soho  and  discussed  the 
event.  The  prices  were  moderate,  conditions  free  and  easy. 
It  was  a  favourite  haunt  of  Members. 

To-night,  moreover,  there  was  likely  to  be  a  good 
attendance.  The  word  had  gone  out. 

The  Studio  scene  had,  of  course,  been  the  subject  of 
much  discussion  already.  The  night  of  its  occurrence  it 
had  been  talked  over  till  dawn  in  more  than  one  flat,  and 
during  the  following  days  the  Society,  as  a  whole,  thought 
of  little  else.  Those  who  had  not  been  present  had  to  be 
informed,  and  those  who  had  witnessed  it  found  it  an 
absorbing  topic  of  speculation.  The  first  words  that  passed 
when  one  member  met  another  in  the  street  was:  "What 
did  you  make  of  that  storm?  Wasn't  it  amazing?  Did 
your  solar  plexus  vibrate?  Mine  did!  And  the  light,  the 
colour,  the  vibrations — weren't  they  terrific?  What  do  you 
think  he  is?"  It  was  rumoured  that  the  Secretary  was 
asking  for  individual  reports.  Excitement  and  interest  were 
general,  though  the  accounts  of  individual  witnesses  differed 
extraordinarily.  It  seemed  impossible  that  all  had  seen  and 
heard  the  same  thing. 

The  back  room  was  pleasantly  filled  to-night,  for  it  was 
somehow  known  that  Millington  Povey,  and  possibly  Father 
Collins,  too,  were  coming.  Miss  Milligan,  the  astrologist, 
was  there  early,  arriving  with  Mrs.  Towzer,  who  saw  auras 
and  had  already,  it  was  rumoured,  painted  automatically 
a  strange  rendering  of  "forces"  that  were  visible  to  her 
clairvoyantly  during  the  occurrence.  Miss  Lance,  in  shin- 

205 


206  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

ing  beads  and  a  glittering  scarf,  arrived  on  their  heels,  an 
account  of  the  scene  in  her  pocket — to  be  published  in  her 
magazine  "Simplicity"  after  she  had  modified  it  according 
to  what  she  picked  up  from  hearing  other,  and  better, 
descriptions. 

Kempster,  immaculate  as  ever,  ordering  his  food  as  he 
ordered  his  clothes,  like  a  connoisseur,  was  one  of  the  first 
to  establish  himself  in  a  comfortable  seat.  He  knew  how 
to  look  after  himself,  and  was  already  eating  in  his  neat 
dainty  way  while  the  others  still  stood  about  studying  the 
big  white  menu  with  its  illegible  hieroglyphics  in  smudged 
violet  ink.  He  supplemented  his  meals  with  special  patent 
foods  of  vegetarian  kind  he  brought  with  him.  He  had 
dried  bananas  in  one  pocket  and  spirit  photographs  in  an- 
other, and  he  was  invariably  pulling  out  the  wrong  thing. 
Meat  he  avoided.  "A  man  is  what  he  eats,"  he  held,  and 
animal  blood  was  fatal  to  psychic  development.  To  eat  pig 
or  cow  was  to  absorb  undesirable  characteristics. 

Next  to  him  sat  Lattimer,  a  lanky  man  of  thirty,  with 
loose  clothes,  long  hair,  and  eyes  of  strange  intensity. 
Known  as  "occultist  and  alchemist,"  he  was  also  a  chemist 
of  some  repute.  His  life  was  ruled  by  a  master-desire  and 
a  master-fear:  the  former,  that  he  might  one  day  project 
his  double  consciously;  the  latter,  that  in  his  next  earthly 
incarnation  he  might  be — the  prospect  made  him  shudder 
— a  woman.  He  sought  to  keep  his  thought  as  concrete 
as  possible,  the  male  quality. 

He  believed  that  the  nervous  centre  of  the  physical  body 
which  controlled  all  such  unearthly,  if  not  definitely 
"spiritual,"  impulses,  was  the  solar  plexus.  For  him  it  was 
the  important  portion  of  his  anatomy,  the  seat  of  intuition. 
Brain  came  second. 

.  "The  fellow,"  he  declared  emphatically,  "stirred  my  solar 
plexus,  my  kundalini — that's  all  I  know."  He  referred,  as 
all  understood,  to  the  latent  power  the  yogis  claim  lies 
coiled,  but  only  rarely  manifested,  in  that  great  nervous 
centre. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  207 

His  statement,  he  knew,  would  meet  with  general  approval 
and  understanding.  It  was  the  literal  Kempster  who  spoiled 
his  opening: 

"Paul  Devonham,"  said  the  latter,  "thinks  it's  merely  a 
secondary  personality  that  emerged.  I  had  a  long  argument 
with  him  about  it " 

"Never  argue  with  the  once-born,"  declared  Povey  flatly, 
producing  his  pet  sentence.  "It's  waste  of  time.  Only 
older  souls,  with  the  experience  of  many  earthly  lives  stored 
in  their  beings,  are  knowledgeable."  He  filled  his  glass  and 
poured  out  for  others,  Lattimer  and  Mrs.  Towzer  alone 
declining,  though  for  different  reasons. 

"It  destroys  the  'sight/  "  explained  the  former.  "Alcohol 
sets  up  coarse  vibrations  that  ruin  clairvoyance." 

"I  decided  to  deny  myself  till  the  war  is  over,"  was  Mrs. 
Towzer's  reason,  and  when  Povey  reminded  her  of  the 
armistice,  she  mentioned  that  Turkey  hadn't  "signed  yet." 

"I  think  his  soul "  began  Miss  Lance. 

"If  he  has  a  soul,"  put  in  Povey,  electrically. 

" — is  hardly  in  his  body  at  all,"  concluded  Miss  Lance, 
less  convincingly  than  originally  intended. 

"It  was  love  at  first  sight.  His  sign  is  Fire  and  hers 
is  Air,"  Miss  Milligan  said.  "That's  certain.  Of  course 
they  came  together." 

"A  clear  case  of  memory,  at  any  rate,"  insisted  Kempster. 
"Two  old  souls  meeting  again  for  the  first  time  for  thousands 
of  years,  probably.  Love  at  first  sight,  or  hate,  for  that 
matter,  is  always  memory,  isn't  it?"  He  disliked  the 
astrology  explanation ;  it  was  not  mysterious  enough,  too 
mathematical  and  exact  to  please  him. 

"Secondary  personalities  are  invariably  memories  of 
former  selves,  of  course,"  agreed  young  Dickson,  the 
theosophist,  who  was  on  the  verge  now  of  becoming  a 
psycho-analyst  and  had  already  discarded  Freud  for  Jung. 
"If  not  memories  of  past  lives,  then  they're  desires  sup- 
pressed in  this  one." 

"The  less  you  think,   the  more  you  know,"  suggested 


208  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Miss  Lance.  She  distrusted  intellect  and  believed  that  an- 
other faculty,  called  instinct  or  intuition,  according  to  which 
word  first  occurred  to  her,  was  the  way  to  knowledge. 
She  was  about  to  quote  Bergson  upside  down,  when  Povey, 
foreseeing  an  interval  of  boredom,  took  command: 

"One  thing  we  know,  at  any  rate,"  he  began  judiciously; 
"we  aren't  the  only  beings  in  the  universe.  There  are  non- 
human  intelligences,  both  vast  and  small.  The  old  world- 
wide legends  can't  be  built  on  nothing.  In  every  age  of 
history — the  reports  are  universal — we  have  pretty  good 
evidence  for  other  forms  of  life  than  humans " 

"Though  never  yet  in  human  form,"  put  in  Lattimer,  yet 
sympathetically.  "Their  bodies,  I  mean,  aren't  human,"  he 
added. 

"Exactly.  That's  true.  But  the  gods,  the  fauns,  the 
satyrs,  the  elemental  beings,  as  we  call  'em — sylphs,  undines, 
gnomes  and  salamanders — to  say  nothing  of  fairies  et  hoc 
genus  omne — there  must  be  some  reasonable  foundation 
for  their  persistence  through  all  the  ages." 

"They  all  belong  to  the  Deva  Evolution,"  Dickson  men- 
tioned with  conviction.  "In  the  East  it's  been  known  and 
recognized  for  centuries,  hasn't  it?  Another  evolutionary 
system  that  runs  parallel  to  ours.  From  planetary  spirits 
down  to  elementals,  they're  concerned  with  the  building 
up  of  form  in  the  various  kingdoms " 

"Yes,  yes,"  Povey  interrupted  impatiently.  Dickson  was 
stealing  what  he  had  meant  to  say  himself  and  to  say,  he 
flattered  himself,  far  better.  "We  know  all  that,  of  course. 
They  stand  behind  what  we  call  the  laws  of  nature,  non- 
human  activities  and  intelligences  of  every  grade  and  kind. 
They  work  for  humanity  in  a  way,  are  in  other  space  and 
time,  deathless,  of  course,  yet — in  some  strange  way,  always 
eager  to  cross  the  gulf  fixed  between  the  two  and  so  find  a 
soul.  They  are  impersonal  in  a  sense,  as  impersonal  as, 
say,  wind  and  fire  through  which  some  of  them  operate  as 
bodies." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  209 

He  paused  and  looked  about  him,  noting  the  interested 
attention  he  awaked. 

"There  may  be  times,"  he  went  on,  "there  probably  are 
certain  occasions,  when  the  gulf  is  more  crossable  than 
others."  He  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  as  a  sympathetic 
murmur  proved  that  the  point  he  was  leading  up  to  was 
favourably  understood  already.  "We  have  had  this  war, 
for  instance,"  he  stated,  his  voice  taking  on  a  more  signifi- 
cant and  mysterious  tone.  "Dislodged  by  the  huge  upheaval, 
man's  soul  is  on  the  march  again."  He  paused  once  more. 
"They,"  he  concluded,  lowering  his  voice  still  more,  and 
emphasizing  the  pronoun,  "are  possibly  already  among  us! 
Who  knows?" 

He  glanced  round.  "We  do ;  we  know,"  was  the  expres- 
sion on  most  faces-  All  knew  precisely  what  he  meant  and 
to  whom  he  referred,  at  any  rate. 

"You  might  get  him  to  come  and  lecture  to  us,"  said 
Dickson,  the  first  to  break  the  pause.  "You  might  ask  Dr. 
Fillery.  You  know  him." 

"That's  an  idea "  began  the  Secretary,  when 

there  was  a  commotion  near  the  door.  His  face  showed 
annoyance. 

It  was  the  arrival  of  Toogood  that  at  this  moment  dis- 
turbed the  atmosphere  and  robbed  Povey  of  the  effect  he 
aimed  at.  It  provided  Kempster,  however,  with  an  idea 
at  the  same  time.  "Here's  a  psychometrist !"  he  exclaimed, 
making  room  for  him.  "He  might  get  a  bit  of  his  hair 
or  clothing  and  psychometrize  it.  He  might  tell  us  about 
his  past,  if  not  exactly  what  he  is." 

The  suggestion,  however,  found  no  seconder,  for  it 
seemed  that  the  new  arrival  was  not  particularly  welcomed. 
Judging  by  the  glances,  the  varying  shades  of  greeting,  too, 
he  was  not  fully  trusted,  perhaps,  this  broad,  fleshy  man 
of  thirty-five,  with  complexion  blotchy,  an  over-sensual 
mouth  and  eyes  a  trifle  shifty.  His  claim  to  membership 
was  two- fold :  he  remembered  past  lives,  and  had  the  strange 


210  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

power  of  psychometry.  An  archaeologist  by  trade,  his  gift 
of  psychometry — by  which  he  claimed  to  hold  an  object  and 
tell  its  past,  its  pedigree,  its  history — was  of  great  use  to 
him  in  his  calling.  Without  further  trouble  he  could  tell 
whether  such  an  object  was  genuine  or  sham.  Dealers  in 
antiquities  offered  him  big  fees — but  "No,  no;  I  cannot 
prostitute  my  powers,  you  see" — and  he  remained  poor 
accordingly. 

In  his  past  lives  he  had  been  either  a  famous  Pharaoh,  or 
Cleopatra — according  to  his  audience  of  the  moment  and 
its  male  or  female  character — but  usually  Cleopatra,  because, 
on  the  whole,  there  was  more  money  and  less  risk  in  her. 
He  lectured — for  a  fee.  Lately,  however,  he  had  been 
Pharaoh,  having  got  into  grave  trouble  over  the  Cleopatra 
claim,  even  to  the  point  of  being  threatened  with  expulsion 
from  the  Society.  His  attitude  during  the  war,  besides, 
had  been  unsatisfactory — it  was  felt  he  had  selfishly  pro- 
tected himself  on  the  grounds  of  being  physically  unfit. 
Apart  from  archaeology,  too,  his  chief  preoccupation,  derived 
from  past  lives  of  course,  was  sex,  in  the  form  of  other 
men's  wives,  his  own  wife  and  children  being,  naturally, 
very  recent  and  somewhat  negligible  ties. 

His  gift  of  psychometry,  none  the  less,  was  considered 
proved — in  spite  of  the  backward  and  indifferent  dealers. 
His  mind  was  quick  and  not  unsubtle.  He  became  now 
au  fait  with  the  trend  of  the  conversation  in  a  very  few 
seconds,  but  he  had  not  been  present  at  the  Studio  when 
the  occurrence  all  discussed  had  taken  place. 

"Hair  would  be  best,"  he  advised  tentatively,  sipping  his 
whisky-and-soda.  He  had  already  dined.  "It's  a  part  of 
himself,  you  see.  Better  than  mere  clothing,  I  mean.  It's 
extremely  vital,  hair.  It  grows  after  death." 

"If  I  can  get  it  for  you,  I  will,"  said  Povey.  "He  may 
be  lecturing  for  us  before  long.  I'll  try." 

"With  psychometry  and  a  good  photograph,"  Kempster 
suggested,  "a  time  exposure,  if  possible,  we  ought  to  get 
some  evidence,  at  any  rate.  It's  first-hand  evidence  we  want, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  211 

of  course,  isn't  it?  What  do  you  think  of  this,  for  instance, 
I  wonder?"  He  turned  to  Lattimer,  drawing  something 
from  his  pocket  and  showing  it.  "It's  a  time  exposure  at 
night  of  a  haunted  tree.  You'll  notice  a  queer  sort  of 
elemental  form  inside  the  trunk  and  branches.  Oh!"  He 
replaced  the  shrivelled  banana  in  his  pocket,  and  drew  out 
the  photograph  without  a  smile.  "This,"  he  explained,  wav- 
ing it,  "is  what  I  meant."  They  fell  to  discussing  it. 

Meanwhile,  Povey,  anxious  to  resume  his  lecture,  made 
an  effort  to  recover  his  command  of  the  group-atmosphere 
which  Toogood  had  disturbed.  The  latter  had  a  "personal 
magnetism"  which  made  the  women  like  him  in  spite  of 
their  distrust. 

"I  was  just  saying,"  he  resumed,  patting  the  elbow  of 
the  psychometrist,  "that  this  strange  event  we've  been  dis- 
cussing— you  weren't  present,  I  believe,  at  the  time,  but, 
of  course,  you've  heard  about  it — has  features  which  seem 
to  point  to  something  radically  new,  or  at  least  of  very  rare 
occurrence.  As  Lattimer  mentioned,  a  human  body  has 
never  yet,  so  far  as  we  know,  been  occupied,  obsessed,  by 
a  non-human  entity,  but  that,  after  all,  is  no  reason  why 
it  should  not  ever  happen.  What  is  a  body,  anyhow  ?  What 
is  an  entity,  too?"  Povey's  thought  was  wandering,  evi- 
dently; the  thread  of  his  first  discourse  was  broken;  he 
floundered.  "Man,  anyway,  is  more  than  a  mere  chemical 
machine,"  he  went  on,  "a  crystallization  of  the  primitive 
nebulae,  though  the  instrument  he  uses,  the  body  he  works 
through,  is  undoubtedly  thus  describable.  Now,  we  know 
there  are  all  kinds  of  non-human  intelligences  busy  on  our 
planet,  in  the  Universe  itself  as  well.  Why,  then,  I  ask, 
should  not  one  of  these ?" 

He  paused,  unable  to  find  himself,  his  confusion  obvious. 
He  was  as  glad  of  the  interruption  that  was  then  provided 
by  the  arrival  of  Imson  as  his  audience  was.  Toogood 
certainly  was  not  sorry ;  he  need  find  no  immediate  answer. 
He  sipped  his  drink  and  made  mental  notes. 

Imson  arrived  in  a  rough  brown  ulster  with  the  collar 


212  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

turned  up  about  his  ears,  a  low  flannel  shirt,  not  strictly 
clean,  lying  loosely  round  his  neck.  His  colourless  face 
was  of  somewhat  flabby  texture,  due  probably  to  his  diet, 
but  its  simple,  honest  expression  was  attractive,  the  smile 
engaging.  The  touch  of  foolishness  might  have  been  child- 
like innocence,  even  saintliness  some  thought,  and  though 
he  was  well  over  forty,  the  unlined  skin  made  him  look 
more  like  thirty.  He  enjoyed  a  physiognomy  not  unlike 
that  of  a  horse  or  sheep.  His  big,  brown  eyes  stared  wide 
open  at  the  world,  expecting  wonder  and  finding  it.  His 
hobby  was  inspirational  poems.  One  lay  in  his  breast 
pocket  now.  He  burned  to  read  it  aloud. 

Pat  Imson's  ideal  was  an  odd  one — detachment ;  the  desire 
to  avoid  all  ties  that  must  bring  him  back  to  future  incar- 
nations on  the  earth,  to  eschew  making  fresh  Karma,  in  a 
word.  He  considered  himself  an  "old  soul,"  and  was  rather 
weary  of  it  all — of  existence  and  development,  that  is.  To 
take  no  part  in  life  meant  to  escape  from  those  tangles  for 
whose  unravelling  the  law  of  rebirth  dragged  the  soul  back 
again  and  again.  To  sow  no  Causes  was  to  have  no  harvest 
of  Effects  to  reap  with  toil  and  perspiration.  Action,  of 
course,  there  must  be,  but  "indifference  to  results  of  action" 
was  the  secret.  Imson,  none  the  less,  was  always  entangled 
with  wives  and  children.  Having  divorced  one  wife,  and 
been  divorced  by  another,  he  had  recently  married  a  third ; 
a  flock  of  children  streamed  behind  him;  he  was  a  good 
father,  if  a  strange  husband. 

"It's  old  Karma  I  have  to  work  off,"  he  would  explain, 
referring  to  the  wives.  "If  I  avoid  the  experience  I  shall 
only  have  to  come  back  again.  There's  no  good  shirking 
old  Karma."  He  gave  this  explanation  to  the  wives  them- 
selves, not  only  to  his  friends.  "Face  it  and  it's  done  with, 
worked  off,  you  see."  That  is,  it  had  to  be  done  nicely, 
kindly,  generously. 

An  entire  absence  of  the  sense  of  humour  was,  of  course, 
his  natural  gift,  yet  a  certain  quaint  wisdom  helped  to  fill 
the  dangerous  vacuum.  He  was  known  usually  as  "Pat." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  213 

"Come  on,  Pat,"  said  Povey,  making  room  for  him  at 
his  side.  "How's  Karma?  We're  just  talking  about  Le- 
Vallon  and  the  Studio  business.  What  do  you  make  of  it? 
You  were  there,  weren't  you  ?"  The  others  listened,  atten- 
tively, for  Imson  had  a  reputation  for  "seeing  true." 

"I  saw  it,  yes,"  replied  Imson,  ordering  his  dinner  with 
indifference — soup,  fried  potatoes,  salad,  cheese  and  coffee 
— but  declining  the  offered  wine.  The  group  waited  for 
his  next  remark,  but  none  was  forthcoming.  He  sat 
crumbling  his  bread  into  the  soup  and  stirring  the  mixture 
with  his  spoon. 

"Did  you  see  the  light  about  him,  Mr.  Imson?"  asked 
Miss  Lance.  "The  brilliant  aura  of  golden  yellow  that  he 
wore?  /  thought — it  sounds  exaggerated,  I  know — but 
to  me  it  seemed  even  brighter  than  the  lightning.  Did  you 
notice  it?" 

"Well,"  said  Imson  slowly,  putting  his  spoon  down.  "I'm 
not  often  clairvoyant,  you  know.  I  did  notice,  however,  a 
sort  of  radiance  about  him.  But  with  hair  like  that,  it's 
difficult  to  be  certain " 

"Full  of  lovely  patterns,"  said  Mrs.  Towzer.  "Geomet- 
rical patterns." 

"Like  astrological  designs,"  mentioned  Miss  Milligan. 
"He's  Leo,  of  course — fire." 

"Almost  as  though  he  brought  or  caused  the  lightning — 
as  if  it  actually  emanated  out  of  his  atmosphere  somehow," 
claimed  Miss  Lance,  for  it  was  her  conversation  after  all. 

"I  saw  nothing  of  that,"  replied  Imson  quietly.  "No,  I 
can't  say  I  saw  anything  exactly  like  that."  He  added 
honestly,  with  his  engaging  smile  that  had  earned  for  him 
in  some  quarters  the  nickname  of  "The  Sheep":  "I  was 
looking  at  Nayan,  you  see,  most  of  the  time." 

A  smile  flickered  round  the  table,  for  rumour  had  it  that 
the  girl  had  once  seemed  to  him  as  possible  "Karma." 

"So  was  I,"  put  in  Kempster  with  kindly  intention,  though 
his  sympathy  was  evidently  not  needed.  Imson  was  too 
simple  even  to  feel  embarrassment.  "She  came  to  life  sud- 


214  THE  BRIGHT   MESSENGER 

denly  for  the  first  time  since  I've  known  her.  It  was  amaz- 
ing." To  which  Imson,  busy  over  his  salad-dressing,  made 
no  reply. 

Povey,  lighting  his  pipe  and  puffing  out  thick  clouds  of 
smoke,  was  cleverer.  "LeVallon's  effect  upon  her,  what- 
ever it  was,  seemed  instantaneous,"  he  informed  the  table. 
"I  never  saw  a  clearer  case  of  two  souls  coming  together 
in  a  flash." 

"As  I  said  just  now,"  Kempster  quickly  mentioned. 

"They  are  similar,"  said  Imson,  looking  up,  while  the 
group  waited  expectantly. 

"Similar,"  repeated  Kempster.    "Ah !" 

"It  was  the  surprise  in  her  face  that  struck  me  most," 
observed  Povey  quickly,  making  an  internal  note  of  Imson's 
adjective,  but  knowing  that  indirect  methods  would  draw 
him  out  better  than  point-blank  questions.  "LeVallon 
showed  it  too.  It  was  an  unexpected  recognition  on  both 
sides.  They  are  'similar/  as  you  say;  both  at  the  same 
stage  of  development,  whatever  that  stage  may  be.  The 
expression  on  both  faces " 

"Escape,"  exclaimed  Imson,  giving  at  last  the  kernel  of 
what  he  had  to  say.  And  the  effect  upon  the  group  was 
electrical.  A  visible  thrill  ran  round  the  Soho  table. 

"The  very  word,"  exclaimed  Povey  and  Miss  Lance  to- 
gether. "Escape !"  But  neither  of  them  knew  exactly  what 
they  meant,  nor  what  Imson  himself  meant. 

"LeVallon  has,  of  course,  already  escaped,"  the  latter 
went  on  quietly.  "He  is  no  longer  caught  by  causes  and 
effects  as  we  are  here.  He's  got  out  of  it  all  long  ago — 
if  he  was  ever  in  it  at  all." 

"If  he  ever  was  in  it  at  all,"  said  Povey  quickly.  "You 
noticed  that  too.  You're  very  discerning,  Pat." 

"Clairvoyant,"  mentioned  Miss  Lance. 

"I've  seen  them  in  dreams  like  that,"  returned  Imson 
calmly.  "I  often  see  them,  of  course."  He  referred  to  his 
qualification  for  membership.  "The  great  figures  I  see  in 
dream  have  just  that  unearthly  expression." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  215 

"Unearthly,"  said  Mrs.  Towzer  with  excitement. 

"Non-human,"  mentioned  Kempster  suggestively. 

"Not  of  this  world,  anyhow,"  suggested  Miss  Lance 
mysteriously. 

"Divine?"  inquired  Miss  Milligan  below  her  breath. 

"Really,"  murmured  Toogood,  "I  must  get  a  bit  of  his 
hair  and  psychometrize  it  at  once."  He  was  sipping  a  second 
glass  of  whisky. 

Imson  looked  round  at  each  face  in  turn,  apparently 
seeing  nothing  that  need  increase  his  attachment  to  the 
planet  by  way  of  fresh  Karma. 

"The  Deva  world,"  he  said  briefly,  after  a  pause. 
"Probably  he's  come  to  take  Nayan  off  with  him.  She — 
I  always  said  so — has  a  strong  strain  of  the  elemental  king- 
dom in  her.  She  may  be  his  Devi.  LeVallon,  I'm  sure, 
is  here  for  the  first  time.  He's  one  of  the  non-human 
evolution.  He's  slipped  in.  A  Deva  himself  probably." 
It  was  as  though  he  said  that  the  waiter  was  Swiss  or 
French,  or  that  the  proprietor's  daughter  had  Italian  blood 
in  her. 

Povey  looked  round  him  with  an  air  of  triumph. 

"Ah !"  he  announced,  as  who  should  say,  "You  all  thought 
my  version  a  bit  wild,  but  here's  confirmation  from  an 
unbiased  witness." 

"Oh,  well,  I  can't  be  certain,"  Imson  reminded  the  group. 
If  he  deceived  them  enough  to  change  their  lives  in  any 
respect,  it  involved  fresh  Karma  for  himself.  Care  was 
indicated.  "I  can't  be  positive,  can  I?"  he  hedged.  "Only 
— I  must  say — the  great  deva-figures  I've  seen  in  dream 
have  exactly  that  look  and  expression." 

"That's  interesting,  Pat,"  Povey  put  in,  "because,  before 
you  came,  I  was  suggesting  a  similar  explanation  for  his 
air  of  immense  potential  power.  The  elemental  atmosphere 
he  brought — we  all  noticed  it,  of  course." 

"Elemental  is  the  only  word,"  Miss  Lance  inserted.  "A 
great  Nature  Being."  She  was  thinking  of  her  magazine. 


216  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"He  struck  me  as  being  so  close  to  Nature  that  he  seemed 
literally  part  of  it." 

"That  would  explain  the  lightning  and  the  strange  cry 
he  gave  about  'messengers,'  "  replied  Imson,  wiping  the  oil 
from  his  chin  and  sprinkling  his  petit  suisse  with  powdered 
sugar.  "It's  quite  likely  enough." 

"I  wish  you'd  jot  down  what  you  think — a  little  report 
of  what  you  saw  and  felt,"  the  Secretary  mentioned.  "It 
would  be  of  great  value.  I  thought  of  making  a  collection 
of  the  different  versions  and  accounts." 

"They  might  be  published  some  day,"  thought  Miss 
Lance.  "Let's  all,"  she  added  aloud  with  emphasis. 

Imson  nodded  agreement,  making  no  audible  reply,  while 
the  conversation  ran  on,  gathering  impetus  as  it  went,  grow- 
ing wilder  possibly,  but  also  more  picturesque.  A  man  in 
the  street,  listening  behind  a  curtain,  must  have  deemed  the 
talkers  suffering  from  delusion,  mad;  a  good  psychologist, 
on  the  other  hand,  similarly  screened,  and  knowing  the 
antecedent  facts,  the  Studio  scene,  at  any  rate,  must  have 
been  struck  by  one  outstanding  detail — the  effect,  namely, 
upon  one  and  all  of  the  person  they  discussed.  They  had 
seen  him  for  an  hour  or  so  among  a  crowd,  a  young  man 
whose  name  they  hardly  knew;  only  a  few  had  spoken  to 
him ;  there  had  been,  it  seemed,  neither  time  nor  opportunity 
for  him  to  produce  upon  one  and  all  the  impression  he 
undoubtedly  had  produced.  For  in  every  mind,  upon  every 
heart,  LeVallon's  mere  presence  had  evidently  graven  an 
unforgettable  image,  scored  an  undecipherable  hieroglyph. 
Each  felt,  it  seemed,  the  hint  of  a  personality  their  knowl- 
edge could  not  explain,  nor  any  earthly  explanation  satisfy. 
The  consciousness  in  each  one,  perhaps,  had  been  quickened. 
Hence,  possibly,  the  extravagance  of  their  conversation. 
Yet,  since  all  reported  differently,  collective  hysteria  seemed 
discounted. 

Meanwhile,    as    the   talk   continued,    and   the    wings   of 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  217 

imaginative  speculation  fanned  the  thick  tobacco  smoke, 
others  had  dropped  in,  both  male  and  female  members,  and 
the  group  now  filled  the  little  room  to  the  walls.  The  same 
magnet  drew  them  all,  in  each  heart  burned  the  same  huge 
question  mark :  Who— what — is  this  LeVallon  ?  What  was 
the  meaning  of  the  scene  in  Khilkoffs  Studio? 

Here,  too,  was  a  curious  and  significant  fact  about  the 
gathering — the  amount  of  knowledge,  true  or  otherwise, 
they  had  managed  to  collect  about  LeVallon.  One  way 
or  another,  no  one  could  say  exactly  how,  the  Society  had 
picked  up  an  astonishing  array  of  detail  they  now  shared 
together.  It  was  known  where  he  had  spent  his  youth, 
also  how,  and  with  whom,  as  well  as  something  of  the  dif- 
ferent views  about  him  held  by  Dr.  Devonham  and  Edward 
Fillery.  To  such  temperaments  as  theirs  the  strange,  the 
unusual,  came  automatically  perhaps,  percolating  into  their 
minds  as  though  a  collective  power  of  thought-reading 
operated.  Garbled,  fanciful,  askew,  their  information  may 
have  been,  but  a  great  deal  of  it  was  not  far  wrong. 

Imson,  for  instance,  provided  an  account  of  LeVallon's 
birth,  to  which  all  listened  spellbound.  He  evaded  all  ques- 
tions as  to  how  he  knew  of  it.  "His  parents,"  he  assured 
the  room,  "practised  the  old  forgotten  magic;  his  father, 
'at  any  rate,  was  an  expert,  if  not  an  initiate,  with  all  the 
rites  and  formulae  of  ancient  times  in  his  memory.  Le- 
Vallon was  born  as  the  result  of  an  experiment,  its  origins 
dating  back  so  far  that  they  concerned  life  upon  another 
planet,  I  believe,  a  planet  nearer  to  the  sun.  The  tre- 
mendous winds  and  heat  were  vehicles  of  deity,  you  see — 
there!' 

"The  parents,  you  mean,  had  former  lives  upon  another 
planet?"  asked  someone  in  a  hushed  tone.  "Or  he  him- 
self?" 

"The  parents — and  Mason.  Mason  was  involved  in  the 
experiment  that  resulted  in  the  birth  of  LeVallon  here 
to-day." 


218  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"The  experiment — what  was  it  exactly?"  inquired 
Lattimer,  while  Toogood  surreptitiously  made  notes  on  his 
rather  dirty  cuff. 

Imson  shrugged  his  shoulders  very  slightly. 

"Some  of  it  came  to  me  in  sleep,"  he  mentioned,  produc- 
ing a  paper  from  his  pocket  and  beginning  to  read  it  aloud 
before  anyone  could  stop  him. 

"  When  the  sun  was  younger,  and  moon  and  stars 

Were  thrilled  with  my  human  birth, 
And  the  winds  fled  shouting  the  wondrous  news 
As  they  circled  the  sea  and  the  earth, 

"  From  the  fight  for  money  and  worldly  fame 

I  drew  one  magical  soul 
Who  came  to  me  over  the  star-lit  sea 
As  the  needle  turns  to  the  Pole. 

"  Conceived  in  the  hour  the  stars  foretold, 

This  son  of  the  winds  I  bore, 
And  I  taught  him  the  secrets  of " 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Povey  audaciously,  "but  the  experi- 
ment you  were  telling  us  about ?" 

A  murmur  of  approving  voices  helped  him. 

"Oh,  the  experiment,  yes,  well — all  I  know  is,"  he  went 
on  with  conviction,  calmly  replacing  the  poem  in  his  pocket, 
"that  it  concerned  an  old  rite,  involving  the  evocation  of 
some  elemental  being  or  nature-spirit  the  three  of  them 
had  already  evoked  millions  of  years  before,  but  had  not 
banished  again.  The  experiment  they  made  to-day  was  to 
restore  it  to  its  proper  sphere.  In  order  to  do  so,  they  had 
to  evoke  it  again,  and,  of  course" — he  glanced  round,  as 
though  all  present  were  familiar  with  the  formula  of  magical 
practices — "it  could  come  only  through  the  channel  of  a 
human  system." 

"Of  course,  yes,"  murmured  a  dozen  voices,  while  eyes 
grew  bigger  and  a  pin  dropping  must  have  been  audible. 

"Well" — Imson  spoke  very  slowly  now,  each  word  clear 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  219 

as  a  bell — "the  father,  who  was  officiating,  failed.  He  could 
not  stand  the  strain.  His  heart  stopped  beating.  He  died 
—just  when  it  was  there,  he  dropped  dead." 

"What  happened  to  iff"  asked  Povey,  too  interested  to 
care  that  he  no  longer  led  the  room.  "You  said  it  could 
only  use  a  human  system  as  channel " 

"It  did  so,"  explained  Imson. 

The  information  produced  a  pause  of  several  seconds. 
Some  of  the  members,  like  Toogood,  though  openly,  were 
making  pencil  notes  upon  cuffs  or  backs  of  envelopes. 

"But  the  channel  was  neither  Mason  nor  the  woman." 
The  effect  of  this  negative  information  was  as  nothing  com- 
pared to  the  startling  interest  produced  by  the  speaker's 
next  words:  "It  took  the  easiest  channel,  the  line  of  least 
resistance — the  unborn  body  of  the  child." 

Povey,  seizing  his  opportunity,  leaped  into  the  silence  : 

"Whose  body,  now  full  grown,  and  named  LeVallon, 
came  to  the  Studio!"  he  exclaimed,  looking  round  at  the 
group,  as  though  he  had  himself  given  the  explanation  all 
had  just  listened  to.  "A  human  body  tenanted  by  a  nature- 
spirit,  one  of  the  form-builders — a  Deva,  .  ,  ." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

FOR  all  the  wildness  of  the  talk,  this  group  of  the 
Unstable  was  a  coherent  and  consistent  entity,  using 
a  language  each  item  in  it  understood.  They  knew  what 
they  were  after.  Alcohol,  coffee,  tobacco,  underfeeding, 
these  helped  or  hindered,  respectively,  the  expression  of 
an  ideal  that,  nevertheless,  was  common  to  them  all;  and 
if  the  minds  represented  were  unbalanced,  or  merely  specu- 
lative, poetic,  one  genuine  quest  and  sympathy  bound  all 
together  into  a  coherent,  and  who  shall  say  unintelligent  or 
valueless,  unit.  The  unstable  enjoyed  an  extreme  sensitive- 
ness to  varied  experience,  with  flexible  adaptability  to  all 
possible  new  conditions,  whereas  the  stable,  with  their  rigid 
mental  organizations,  remained  uninformed,  stagnant,  even 
fossilized. 

In  other  rooms  about  the  great  lamp-lit  city  sat,  doubt- 
less, other  similar  groups  at  the  very  same  moment,  dis- 
cussing the  shibboleths  of  other  faiths,  of  other  dreams,  of 
other  ideas,  systems,  notions,  philosophies,  all  interpretative 
of  the  earth  in  which  little  humanity  dwells,  cut  off  and 
isolated,  apparently,  from  the  rest  of  the  stupendous 
universe.  A  listener,  screened  from  view,  a  listener  not 
in  sympathy  with  the  particular  group  he  observed,  and 
puzzled,  therefore,  by  the  language  used,  must  have  deemed 
he  listened  to  harmless,  if  boring,  madness.  For  each  group 
uses  its  own  language,  and  the  lowest  common  denominator, 
though  plainly  printed  in  the  world's  old  scriptures,  has  not 
yet  become  adopted  by  the  world  at  large. 

Into  this  particular  group,  a  little  later  in  the  evening, 
and  when  the  wings  of  imagination  had  increased  their 

220 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  221 

sweep  a  trifle  dangerously  perhaps — into  the  room,  like  the 
arrival  of  a  policeman  rather,  dropped  Father  Collins.  He 
came  rarely  to  the  Prometheans'  restaurant.  There  was  a 
general  sense  of  drawing  breath  as  he  appeared.  A  pause 
followed.  Something  of  the  cold  street  air  came  with  him. 
He  wore  his  big  black  felt  hat,  his  shabby  opera  cloak,  and 
clutched  firmly — he  had  no  gloves  on — the  heavy  gnarled 
stick  he  had  cut  for  his  collection  in  a  Cingalese  forest 
years  ago,  when  he  was  studying  with  a  Buddhist  priest. 
The  folds  of  his  voluminous  cloak,  as  he  took  it  off,  sent 
the  hanging  smoke-clouds  in  a  whirl.  His  personality  stirred 
the  mental  atmosphere  as  well.  The  women  looked  up  and 
stared,  respectful  welcome  in  their  eyes ;  several  of  the  men 
rose  to  shake  hands ;  there  was  a  general  shuffling  of  chairs. 

"Bring  another  moulin  a  vent  and  a  clean  glass,"  Povey 
said  at  once  to  the  hovering  waiter. 

"It's  raw  and  bitter  in  the  street  and  a  fog  coming  down 
thickly,"  mentioned  Father  Collins.  He  exhaled  noisily  and 
with  comfortable  relief,  as  he  squeezed  himself  towards 
the  chair  Povey  placed  for  him  and  looked  round  genially, 
nodding  and  shaking  hands  with  those  he  knew.  "But 
you're  warm  and  cosy  enough  in  here" — he  sat  down  with 
unexpected  heaviness,  and  smiled  at  everybody — "and  well 
fed,  too,  I'll  be  bound." 

"  The  body  must  be  comfortable  before  the  mind  can 
enjoy  itself,' "  said  Phillipps,  an  untidy  member  who  dis- 
liked asceticism.  "Starvation  produces  hallucination,  not 
vision."  His  glance  took  in  the  unused  glasses.  His  qualifi- 
cation was  a  vision  of  an  uncle  at  the  moment  of  death, 
and  the  uncle  had  left  him  money.  He  had  written  a  wordy 
pamphlet  describing  it. 

"I'll  have  an  omelette,  then,  I  think,"  Father  Collins  told 
the  waiter,  as  the  red  wine  arrived.  "And  some  fried 
potatoes.  A  bit  of  cheese  to  follow,  and  coffee,  yes."  He 
filled  his  glass.  He  had  not  come  to  argue  or  to  preach, 
and  Phillipps's  challenge  passed  unnoticed.  Phillipps,  who 
had  been  leading  the  talk  of  late,  resented  the  new  arrival, 


222  THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

but  felt  his  annoyance  modify  as  he  saw  his  own  glass 
generously  filled.  Povey,  too,  accepted  a  glass,  while  say- 
ing with  a  false  vehemence,  "No,  no,"  his  finger  against 
the  rim. 

A  change  stole  over  the  room,  for  the  new  personality 
was  not  negligible;  he  brought  his  atmosphere  with  him. 
The  wild  talk,  it  was  felt  now,  would  not  be  quite  suit- 
able. Father  Collins  had  the  reputation  of  being  some- 
thing of  a  scholar;  they  were  not  quite  sure  of  him;  none 
knew  him  very  intimately ;  he  had  a  rumoured  past  as  well 
that  lent  a  flavour  of  respect.  One  story  had  it  that 
"dabbling  in  magic"  had  lost  him  his  position  in  the  Church. 
Yet  he  was  deemed  an  asset  to  the  Society. 

Whatever  it  was,  the  key  changed  sharply.  Imson's  eyes 
and  ears  grew  wider,  the  hand  of  Miss  Lance  went  instinc- 
tively to  her  hair  and  combs,  Miss  Milligan  sought  through 
her  mind  for  a  remark  at  once  instructive  and  uncommon, 
Mrs.  Towzer  looked  past  him  searchingly  lest  his  aura 
escape  her  before  she  caught  its  colour,  and  Kempster, 
smoothing  his  immaculate  coat,  had  an  air  of  being  in  his 
present  surroundings  merely  by  chance.  Toogood,  quickly 
scanning  his  notes,  wondered  whether,  if  called  upon,  he 
was  to  be  Pharaoh  or  Cleopatra.  One  and  all,  that  is,  took 
on  a  soberer  gait.  This  semi-clerical  visit  complicated.  The 
presence  of  Father  Collins  was  a  compliment.  What  he 
had  to  say — about  LeVallon  and  the  Studio  scene — was, 
anyhow,  assured  of  breathless  interest. 

Povey  led  off.  "We  were  just  talking  over  the  other 
night,"  he  observed,  "the  night  at  the  Studio,  you  remember. 
The  storm  and  so  on.  It  was  a  singular  occurrence,  though, 
of  course,  we  needn't,  we  mustn't  exaggerate  it."  And 
while  he  thus,  as  Secretary,  set  the  note,  Father  Collins 
sipped  his  wine  and  beamed  upon  the  group.  He  made  no 
comment.  "You  were  there,  weren't  you  ?"  continued  Povey, 
sipping  his  own  comforting  glass.  "I  think  I  saw  you. 
Fillery,  you  may  have  noticed,"  he  added,  "brought — a 
friend." 


THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER  223 

"LeVallon,  yes,"  said  the  other  in  a  tone  that  startled 
them.  "A  most  unusual  fellow,  wasn't  he?"  He  was 
attacking  the  omelette  now.  "A  Greek  God,  if  ever  I  saw 
one,"  he  added.  And  the  silence  in  the  crowded  room 
became  abruptly  noticeable.  Miss  Milligan,  feeling  her 
zodiacal  garter  slipping,  waited  to  pull  it  up.  Imson's  brown 
eyes  grew  wider.  Kempster  held  his  breath.  Toogood 
borrowed  a  cigar  and  waited  for  someone  to  offer  him  a 
match  before  he  lit  it. 

"Delicious,"  added  Father  Collins.  "Cooked  to  a  turn." 
the  omelette  slid  about  his  plate. 

But  the  silence  continued,  and  he  realized  the  position 
suddenly.  Emptying  his  glass  and  casually  refilling  it,  he 
turned  and  faced  the  eager  group  about  him. 

"You  want  to  know  what  7  thought  about  it  all,"  he 
said.  "You've  been  discussing  LeVallon,  Nayan  and  the 
rest,  I  see."  He  looked  round  as  though  he  were  in  the 
lost  pulpit  that  was  his  right.  After  a  pause  he  asked  point 
blank:  "And  what  do  you  all  think  of  it?  How  did  it 
strike  you  all?  For  myself,  I  confess" — he  took  another 
sip  and  paused — "I  am  full  of  wonder  and  question,"  he 
finished  abruptly. 

It  was  Imson,  the  fearless,  wondering  Pat  Imson,  who 
first  found  his  tongue. 

"We  think,"  he  ventured,  "LeVallon  is  probably  of  Deva 
origin." 

The  others,  while  admiring  his  courage,  seemed  unsym- 
pathetic suddenly.  Such  phraseology,  probably  meaningless 
to  the  respected  guest,  was  out  of  place.  Eyes  were  cast 
down,  or  looked  generally  elsewhere.  Povey,  remembering 
that  the  Society  was  not  solely  Eastern,  glared  at  the  speaker. 
Father  Collins,  however,  was  not  perturbed. 

"Possibly,"  he  remarked  with  a  courteous  smile.  "The 
origin  of  us  all  is  doubtful  and  confused.  We  know  not 
whence  we  come,  of  course,  and  all  that.  Nor  can  we 
ever  tell  exactly  who  our  neighbour  is,  or  what.  LeVallon," 
he  went  on,  "since  you  all  ask  me" — he  looked  round  again 


824  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

— "is — for  me — an  undecipherable  being.  I  am,"  he  added, 
his  words  falling  into  open  mouths  and  extended  eyes  and 
ears,  "somewhat  puzzled.  But  more — I  am  enormously 
stimulated  and  intrigued." 

All  gazed  at  him.  Father  Collins  was  in  his  element. 
The  rapt  silence  that  met  him  was  precisely  what  he  had 
a  right  to  expect  from  his  lost  pulpit.  He  had  come, 
probably,  merely  to  listen  and  to  watch.  The  opportunity 
provided  by  a  respectful  audience  was  too  much  for  him. 
An  inspiration  tempted  him. 

"I  am  inclined  to  believe,"  he  resumed  suddenly  in  a 
simple  tone,  "that  he  is — a  Messenger." 

The  sentence  might  have  dropped  from  Sirius  upon  a 
listening  planet.  The  babble  that  followed  must,  to  an 
ordinary  man,  have  seemed  confusion.  Everyone  spoke  with 
a  rush  into  his  neighbour's  ear.  All  bubbled.  "I  always 
thought  so,  I  told  you  so,  that  was  exactly  what  I  meant 
just  now" — and  so  on.  All  found  their  tongues,  at  any 
rate,  if  Povey,  as  Secretary,  led  the  turmoil : 

"Something  outside  our  normal  evolution,  you  mean?" 
he  asked  judiciously.  "Such  a  conception  is  possible,  of 
course." 

"A  Messenger!"  ran  on  the  babel  of  male  and  female 
voices. 

It  was  here  that  Father  Collins  failed.  The  "unstable" 
in  him  came  suddenly  uppermost.  The  "ecstatic"  in  his 
being  took  the  reins.  The  wondering  and  expectant 
audience  suited  him.  The  red  wine  helped  as  well.  When 
he  said  "Messenger"  he  had  meant  merely  someone  who 
brought  a  message.  The  expression  of  nobility  merged 
more  and  more  in  the  slovenly  aspect.  Like  a  priest  in 
the  pulpit,  whom  none  can  answer  and  to  whom  all  must 
listen,  he  had  his  text,  though  that  text  had  been  suggested 
actually  by  the  conversation  he  had  just  heard.  He  had 
not  brought  it  with  him.  It  occurred  to  him  merely  then 
and  there.  His  mind  reflected,  in  a  word,  the  collective 
idea  that  was  in  the  air  about  him,  and  he  proceeded  to 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  225 

sum  it  up  and  give  expression  to  it.  This  was  his  gift, 
his  fatal  gift — a  ready  sensitiveness,  a  plausible  exposition. 
He  caught  the  prevailing  mood,  the  collective  notion,  then 
dramatized  it.  Before  he  left  the  pulpit  he  invariably, 
however,  convinced  himself  that  what  he  had  said  in  it 
was  true,  inspired,  a  revelation — for  that  moment. 

"A  Messenger,"  he  announced,  thrusting  his  glass  aside 
with  an  impatient  gesture  as  though  noticing  for  the  first 
time  that  it  was  there.  "A  Messenger,"  he  repeated,  the 
automatic  emphasis  in  his  voice  already  persuading  him  that 
he  believed  what  he  was  about  to  say,  "sent  among  us  from 
who  knows  what  distant  sphere" — he  drew  himself  up  and 
looked  about  him — "and  for  who  can  guess  on  what 
mysterious  and  splendid  mission." 

His  eye  swept  his  audience,  his  hand  removed  the  glass 
yet  farther  lest,  it  impede  free  gesture.  It  was,  however, 
as  Povey  noticed,  empty  now.  "We,  of  course,"  he  went  on 
impressively,  lowering  his  voice,  "we,  a  mere  handful  in 
the  world,  but  alert  and  watchful,  all  of  us — we  know  that 
some  great  new  teaching  is  expected" — he  threw  out  another 
challenging  glance — "but  none  of  us  can  know  whence  it 
may  come  nor  in  what  way  it  shall  manifest."  His  voice 
dropped  dramatically.  "Whether  as  a  thief  in  the  night, 
or  with  a  blare  of  trumpets,  none  of  us  can  tell.  But — we 
expect  it  and  are  ready.  To  us,  therefore,  perhaps,  as  to 
the  twelve  fishermen  of  old,  may  be  entrusted  the  privilege 
of  accepting  it,  the  work  of  spreading  it  among  a  hostile 
and  unbelieving  world,  even  perhaps  the  final  sacrifice  of 
— of  suffering  for  it." 

He  paused,  quickly  took  in  the  general  effect  of  his  words, 
picked  up  here  and  there  a  hint  of  question,  and  realized 
that  he  had  begun  on  too  exalted  a  note.  Detecting  this 
breath  of  caution  in  the  collective  mind  that  was  his  inspira- 
tion, he  instantly  shifted  his  key. 

"LeVallon,"  he  resumed,  instinctively  emphasizing  the 
conviction  in  his  voice  so  that  the  change  of  key  might  be 
less  noticeable,  "undoubtedly — believes  himself  to  be — some 


226  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

such  divine  Messenger.  .  .  ."  It  was  consummate  hedg- 
ing. 

The  sermon  needs  no  full  report.  The  audience,  without 
realizing  it,  witnessed  what  is  known  as  an  "inspirational 
address,"  where  a  speaker,  naturally  gifted  with  a  certain 
facile  eloquence,  gathers  his  inspiration,  takes  his  changing 
cues  as  well,  from  the  collective  mind  that  listens  to  him. 
Father  Collins,  quite  honestly  doubtless,  altered  his  key 
automatically.  He  no  longer  said  that  LeVallon  was  a 
Messenger,  but  that  he  "believed  himself"  to  be  one.  Like 
Balaam,  he  said  things  he  had  not  at  first  thought  of  saying. 
He  talked  for  some  ten  minutes  without  stopping.  He  said 
"all  sorts  of  things,"  according  to  the  expression  of  critical 
doubt,  of  wonder,  of  question,  of  rejection  or  acceptance, 
on  the  particular  face  he  gazed  at.  At  regular  intervals 
he  inserted,  with  considerable  effect,  his  favourite  sentence : 
"A  man  in  his  own  place  is  the  Ruler  of  his  Fate." 

He  developed  his  idea  that  LeVallon  "believed  himself 
to  be  such  and  such  .  .  ."  but  declared  that  the  conception 
had  been  put  into  the  youth  during  his  life  of  exile  in  the 
mountains — the  Society  had  already  acquired  this  informa- 
tion and  extended  it — and  had  "felt  himself  into"  the  role 
until  he  had  become  its  actual  embodiment. 

"He  does  not  think,  he  does  not  reason,"  he  explained. 
"He  feels — he  feels  with.  Now,  to  'feel  with'  anything 
is  to  become  it  in  the  end.  It  is  the  only  way  of  true 
knowledge,  of  course,  of  true  understanding.  If  I  want  to 
understand,  say,  an  Arab,  I  must  feel  with  that  Arab  to 
the  point — for  the  moment — of  actually  becoming  him.  And 
this  strange  youth  has  spent  his  time,  his  best  years,  mark 
you — his  creative  years,  feeling  with  the  elemental  forces 
of  Nature  until  he  has  actually  becomes — at  moments — one 
with  them." 

He  paused  again  and  stared  about  him.  He  saw  faces 
shocked,  astonished,  startled,  but  not  hostile.  He  continued 
rapidly:  "There  lies  the  danger.  One  may  get  caught, 
get  stuck.  Lose  the  desire  to  return  to  one's  normal  self. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  227 

Which  means,  of  course,  remaining  out  of  relation  with 
one's  environment — mad.  Only  a  man  in  his  own  place 
is  the  ruler  of  his  luck.  .  .  ." 

He  noticed  suddenly  the  look  of  disappointment  on  several 
faces.  He  swiftly  hedged. 

"On  the  other  hand,"  he  went  on,  making  his  voice  and 
manner  more  impressive  than  before,  "it  may  be — who  can 
say  indeed? — it  may  be  that  he  is  in  relation  with  another 
environment  altogether,  a  much  vaster  environment,  an 
extended  environment  of  which  the  rest  of  humanity  is 
unaware.  The  privilege  of  tasting  something  of  an  ex- 
tended environment  some  of  us  here  already  enjoy.  What 
we  all  know  as  human  activities  are  doubtless  but  a  frag- 
ment of  life — the  conscious  phenomena  merely  of  some 
larger  whole  of  which  we  are  aware  in  fleeting  seconds 
only — by  mood,  by  hint,  by  suggestive  hauntings,  so  to  speak 
— by  faint  shadows  of  unfamiliar,  nameless  shape  cast 
across  our  daily  life  from  some  intenser  sun  we  normally 
cannot  see!  LeVallon  may  be,  as  some  of  us  think  and 
hope,  a  Messenger  to  show  us  the  way  into  a  yet  farther 
field  of  consciousness.  .  .  . 

"It  is  a  fine,  a  noble,  an  inspiring  hope,  at  any  rate,"  he 
assured  the  room.  "Unless  some  such  Messenger  comes 
into  the  world,  showing  us  how  to  extend  our  knowledge, 
we  can  get  no  farther;  we  shall  never  know  more  tfyan 
we  know  now ;  we  shall  only  go  on  multiplying  our  channels 
for  observing  the  same  old  things.  .  .  ." 

He  closed  his  little  address  finally  on  a  word  as  to  what 
attitude  should  be  adopted  to  any  new  experience  of  amaz- 
ing and  incredible  kind.  To  a  Society  such  as  the  one 
he  had  the  honour  of  belonging  to  was  left  the  guidance 
of  the  perverse  and  ignorant  generations  outside  of  it,  "the 
lethargic  and  unresponsive  majority,"  as  he  styled  them. 

"We  must  not  resist,"  he  declared  bravely.  "We  must 
accept  with  confidence,  above  all  without  fear."  He  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  somewhat  exhausted,  for  the  source  of 
his  inspiration  was  evidently  weakening.  His  words  came 


228  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

less  spontaneously,  less  easily;  he  hesitated,  sighed,  looked 
from  face  to  face  for  help  he  did  not  find.  His  glass  was 
empty.  "We're  here,"  he  concluded  lamely,  "without  being 
consulted,  and  we  may  safely  leave  to  the  Powers  that 
brought  us  here  the  results  of  such  acceptance." 

"Quite  so,"  agreed  Povey,  sighing  audibly.  "Denial  will 
get  us  nowhere."  He  filled  up  Father  Collins's  glass  and 
his  own.  "I  think  most  of  us  are  ready  enough  to  accept 
any  new  experience  that  comes,  and  to  accept  it  without 
fear."  He  drained  his  own  glass  and  looked  about  him. 
"But  the  point  is — how  did  LeVallon  produce  the  effect 
upon  us  all — the  effect  he  did  produce?  He  may  be  non- 
human,  or  he  may  be  merely  mad.  He  may,  as  Imson  says, 
come  to  us  by  some  godless  chance  from  another  evolutionary 
system — of  which,  mind  you,  we  have  as  yet  no  positive 
knowledge — or  he  may  be  a  Messenger,  as  Father  Collins 
suggests,  from  some  divine  source,  bringing  new  teaching. 
But,  in  the  name  of  Magic,  how  did  he  manage  it?  In 
other  words — what  is  he?" 

For  Povey  could  be  very  ruthless  when  he  chose.  It 
was  this  ruthlessness,  perhaps,  that  made  him  such  an  effi- 
cient secretary.  The  note  of  extravagance  in  his  language 
had  possibly  another  inspiration. 

An  awkward  pause,  at  any  rate,  followed  his  remarks. 
Father  Collins  had  comforted  and  blessed  the  group.  Povey 
introduced  cold  water  rather. 

"There's  this — and  th  re's  that,"  remarked  Miss  Milligan, 
tactfully. 

"Those  among  us,"  added  Miss  Lance  with  sympathy, 
"who  have  The  Sight,  know  at  least  what  they  have  seen. 
Still,  I  think  we  are  indebted  to  Father  Collins  for — his 
guidance." 

"If  we  knew  exactly  what  he  is,"  mentioned  Mrs.  Towzer, 
referring  to  LeVallon,  "we  should  know  exactly  where  we 
are." 

They  got  up  to  go.  There  was  a  fumbling  among  crowded 
hat-pegs. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  829 

"What  is  he?"  offered  Kempster.  "He  certainly  made 
us  all  sit  up  and  take  notice." 

"No  mere  earthly  figure,"  suggested  Imson,  "could  have 
produced  the  effect  he  did.  In  my  poem — it  came  to  me  in 
sleep " 

Father  Collins  held  his  glass  unsteadily  to  the  light.  "A 
Messenger,"  he  interrupted  with  authority,  "would  affect 
us  all  differently,  remember." 

The  talk  continued  in  this  fashion  for  a  considerable 
time,  while  all  searched  for  wraps  and  coats.  The  waiter 
brought  the  bill  amid  general  confusion,  but  no  one  noticed 
him.  All  were  otherwise  engaged.  Povey  paid  it  finally, 
putting  it  down  to  the  Entertainment  Account. 

"Remember,"  he  said,  as  they  stood  in  a  group  on  the 
restaurant  steps,  each  wondering  who  would  provide  a  lift 
home,  "remember,  we  have  all  got  to  write  out  an  account 
of  what  we  saw  and  heard  at  the  Studio.  These  reports 
will  be  valuable.  They  will  appear  in  our  'Psychic  Bulletin' 
first.  Then  I'll  have  them  bound  into  a  volume.  And  I 
shall  try  and  get  LeVallon  to  give  us  a  lecture  too.  Tickets 
will  be  extra,  of  course,  but  each  member  can  bring  a  friend. 
I'll  let  you  all  know  the  date  in  due  course." 


-. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

WHILE  the  Prometheans  thus,  individually  and  collec- 
tively fermenting,  floundered  between  old  and  new 
interpretations  of  a  strange  occurrence,  in  another  part  of 
London  something  was  happening,  of  its  kind  so  real,  so 
interesting,  that  one  and  all  would  eagerly  have  renounced 
a  favourite  shibboleth  or  pet  desire  to  witness  it.  Kempster 
would  have  eaten  a  raw  beefsteak,  Lattimer  have  agreed 
to  rebirth  as  a  woman,  Mrs.  Towzer  have  swallowed  whisky 
neat,  and  even  Toogood  have  written  a  signed  confession 
that  his  "psychometry,"  was  intelligent  guesswork. 

It  is  the  destiny,  however,  of  such  students  of  the  wonder- 
ful to  receive  their  data  invariably  at  second  or  third  hand ; 
the  data  may  deal  with  genuine  occurrences,  but  the  student 
seems  never  himself  present  at  the  time.  From  books,  from 
reports,  from  accounts  of  someone  who  knew  an  actual 
witness,  the  student  generally  receives  the  version  he  then 
proceeds  to  study  and  elaborate. 

In  this  particular  instance,  moreover,  no  version  ever 
reached  their  ears  at  all,  either  at  second  or  third  hand, 
because  the  only  witness  of  what  happened  was  Edward 
Fillery,  and  he  mentioned  it  to  no  one.  Its  reality,  its 
interpretation  likewise,  remained  authoritative  only  for  that 
expert,  if  unstable,  mind  that  experienced  the  one  and 
divined  the  other. 

His  conversation  with  Devonham  over,  and  the  latter 
having  retired  to  his  room,  Fillery  paid  a  last  visit  to  the 
patient  who  was  now  his  private  care,  instead  of  merely 
an  inmate  of  the  institution  that  was  half  a  Home  and  half 
a  Spiritual  Clinique.  The  figure  lay  sleeping  quietly,  the 
lean,  muscular  body  bare  to  the  wind  that  blew  upon  it 
from  the  open  window.  Graceful,  motionless,  both  pillow 

230 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  231 

fand  coverings  rejected,  "N.  H."  breathed  the  calm,  regular 
breath  of  deepest  slumber.  The  light  from  the  door  just 
touched  the  face  and  folded  hands,  the  features  wore 
no  expression  of  any  kind,  the  hair,  drawn  back  from  the 
forehead  and  temples,  almost  seemed  to  shine. 

Through  the  window  came  the  rustle  of  the  tossing 
branches,  but  the  night  air,  though  damp,  was  neither  raw 
nor  biting,  and  Fillery  did  not  replace  the  sheets  upon  the 
great  sleeping  body.  He  withdrew  as  softly  as  he  entered. 
Knowing  he  would  not  close  an  eye  that  night,  he  left  the 
house  silently  and  walked  out  into  the  deserted  streets.  .  .  . 

The  rain  had  ceased,  but  the  wet  wind  rushed  in  gusts 
against  him,  the  soft  blows  and  heavy  moisture  acting  as 
balm  to  his  somewhat  tired  nerves.  As  with  great  elemental 
hands,  the  windy  darkness  stroked  him,  soothing  away  the 
intense  excitement  he  had  felt,  muting  a  thousand  eager 
questions.  They  stroked  his  brain  into  a  gentler  silence 
gradually.  "Don't  think,  don't  think,"  night  whispered  all 
about  him,  "but  feel,  feel,  feel.  What  you  want  to  know 
will  come  to  you  by  feeling  now."  He  obeyed  instinctively. 
Down  the  long,  empty  streets  he  passed,  swinging  his  stick, 
tapping  the  lampposts,  noting  how  steady  their  light  held 
in  the  wind,  noting  the  tossing  trees  in  little  gardens,  noting 
occasionally  rifts  of  moonlight  between  the  racing  clouds, 
but  relinquishing  all  attempt  to  think. 

He  counted  the  steps  between  the  lamp-posts  as  he  swung 
along,  leaving  the  kerb  at  each  crossing  with  his  left  foot, 
taking  the  new  one  with  his  right,  planting  each  boot  safely 
in  the  centre  of  each  paving  stone,  establishing,  in  a  word, 
a  sort  of  rhythm  as  he  moved.  He  did  so,  however,  without 
being  consciously  aware  of  it.  He  was  not  aware,  indeed, 
of  anything  but  that  he  swung  along  with  this  pleasant 
rhythmical  stride  that  rested  his  body,  though  the  exercise 
was  vigorous. 

And  the  night  laid  her  deep  peace  upon  him  as  he 
went.  .  .  . 

The  streets  grew  narrower,  twisted,  turned  and  ran  up- 


232  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

hill;  the  houses  became  larger,  spaced  farther  apart,  less 
numerous,  their  gardens  bigger,  with  groups  of  trees  instead 
of  isolated  specimens.  He  emerged  suddenly  upon  the  open 
heath,  tasting  a  newer,  sweeter  air.  The  huge  city  lay 
below  him  now,  but  the  rough,  shouting  wind  drowned  its 
distant  roar  completely.  For  a  time  he  stood  and  watched 
its  twinkling  lights  across  the  vapours  that  hung  between, 
then  turned  towards  the  little  pond.  He  knew  it  well.  Its 
waves  flew  dancing  happily.  The  familiar  outline  of  Jack 
Straw's  Castle  loomed  beyond.  The  square  enclosure  of 
the  anti-aircraft  gun  rattled  with  a  metallic  sound  in  the 
wind.  .  .  . 

He  had  been  walking  for  the  best  part  of  two  hours  now, 
thinking  nothing  but  feeling  only,  and  his  surface-conscious- 
ness, perhaps,  lay  still,  inactive.  The  mind  was  quiescent 
certainly,  his  being  subdued  and  lulled  by  the  rhythmic 
movement  which  had  gained  upon  his  entire  system.  The 
sails  of  his  ship  hung  idly,  becalmed  above  the  profound 
deeps  below.  It  was  these  deeps,  the  mysterious  and  in- 
exhaustible region  below  the  surface,  that  now  began  to 
stir.  There  stole  upon  him  a  dim  prophetic  sense  as  of 
horizons  lifting  and  letting  in  new  light.  He  glanced  about 
him.  The  moon  was  brighter  certainly,  the  flying  scud  was 
thinning,  though  the  dawn  was  still  some  hours  away.  But 
it  was  not  the  light  of  moon  or  sun  or  stars  he  looked  for ; 
it  was  no  outer  light. 

The  little  waves  fell  splashing  at  his  feet.  He  watched 
them  for  a  long  time,  keeping  very  still ;  his  heart,  his  mind, 
his  nerves,  his  muscles,  all  were  very  still.  .  .  .  He  became 
aware  that  new  big  powers  were  alert  and  close,  hovering 
above  the  world,  feathering  the  Race  like  wings  of  mighty 
birds.  The  waters  were  being  troubled.  .  .  . 

He  turned  and  walked  slowly,  but  ever  with  the  same 
pleasant  rhythm  that  was  in  him,  to  the  pine  trees,  where 
he  paused  a  minute,  listening  to  the  branches  shaking  and 
singing,  then  retraced  his  steps  along  the  ridge,  every  yard 
of  which,  though  blurred  in  darkness,  he  knew  and  recog- 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  233 

nized.  Below,  on  his  left  lay  London,  on  his  right  stretched 
the  familiar  country,  though  now  invisible,  past  Hendon 
with  its  Welsh  Harp,  Wembley,  and  on  towards  Harrow, 
whose  church  steeple  would  catch  the  sunrise  before  very 
long.  He  reached  the  little  pond  again  and  heard  its  small 
waves  rushing  and  tumbling  in  the  south-west  wind.  He 
stood  and  watched  them,  listening  to  their  musical  wash  and 
gurgle. 

The  waters,  yes,  were  being  troubled.  .  .  .  Despite  the 
buffeting  wind,  the  world  lay  even  stiller  now  about  him; 
no  single  human  being  had  he  seen ;  even  stiller  than  before, 
too,  lay  heart  and  mind  within  him ;  the  latter  held  no  single 
picture.  He  was  aware,  yes,  of  horizons  lifting,  of  great 
powers  alert  and  close;  the  interior  light  increased.  He 
felt,  but  he  did  not  think.  Into  the  empty  chamber  of  his 
being,  swept  and  garnished,  flashed  suddenly,  then,  as  in 
picture  form,  the  memory  of  "N.  H,"  All  that  he  knew 
about  him  came  at  once :  Paul's  notes  and  journey,  the  Lon- 
don scenes  and  talks,  his  own  observations,  deductions, 
questionings,  his  dreams,  and  fears  and  yearnings,  his  hope 
and  wonder — all  came  in  a  clapping  instant,  complete  and 
simultaneous.  Into  his  opened  subconscious  being  floated 
the  power  and  the  presence  of  that  bright  messenger  who 
brought  glad  tidings  to  his  life. 

"N.  H."  stood  beside  him,  whispering  with  lips  that  were 
the  darkness,  and  with  words  that  were  the  wind.  It  was 
the  power  and  presence  of  "N.  H."  that  lifted  the  horizon 
and  let  in  light.  His  body  lay  sleeping  miles  away  in  that 
bed  against  an  open  window.  This  was  his  real  presence. 
Without  words,  as  without  thought,  understanding  came. 
The  appeal  of  "N.  H."  was  direct  to  the  subliminal  mind; 
it  was  the  hidden  nine-tenths  he  stimulated ;  hence  came  the 
intensification  of  consciousness  in  all  who  had  to  do  with 
him.,  And  it  operated  now.  Fillery  was  aware  of  defying 
time  and  space,  as  though  there  were  no  limits  to  his  being. 
Faith  lights  fires.  .  .  .  Perception  wandered  down  those 
dusky  by-ways  behind  the  mind  that  lead  through  trackless 


234  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

depths  where  the  massed  heritage  of  the  world-soul,  lit 
sometimes  by  a  flashing  light,  reveal  incredible,  incalculable 
things.  One  of  those  flashes  came  now.  Through  the  fis- 
sures, as  it  were,  of  his  unstable  being  rose  the  marvellous, 
uncanny  gleam.  His  eyes  were  opened  and  he  saw. 

The  label,  he  realized,  was  incorrect,  inadequate — "N. 
H."  was  a  misnomer;  more  than  human,  both  different  to 
and  greater  than,  came  nearer  to  the  truth.  A  being  from 
other  conditions  certainly,  belonging  to  another  order;  an 
order  whose  work  was  unremitting  service  rendered  with 
joy  and  faithfulness;  a  hierarchy  whose  service  included 
the  entire  universe,  the  stars  and  suns  and  nebulae,  earth 
with  her  frail  humanity  but  an  insignificant  fraction  of  it 
all.  .  .  . 

He  came,  of  course,  from  that  central  sea  of  energy 
whence  all  life,  pushing  irresistibly  outwards  into  form, 
first  arises.  Like  human  beings,  he  came  thence  undoubt- 
edly, but  more  directly  than  they,  in  more  intimate  relations, 
therefore,  with  the  elemental  powers  that  build  up  form 
and  shape  the  destinies  of  matter.  One  only  of  a  mighty 
host  of  varying  degrees  and  powers,  his  services  lay  inter- 
woven with  the  very  heart  and  processes  of  Nature  herself. 
The  energies  of  heat  and  air,  essentials  of  all  life  every- 
where, were  his  handmaidens;  he  worked  with  fire  and 
wind ;  in  the  forms  he  helped  to  build  he  set  enthusiasm  and 
energy  aglow.  .  .  . 

From  stars  and  fire-mist  he  came  now  into  humanity, 
using  the  limited  instrument  of  a  human  mechanism,  a 
mechanism  he  must  learn  to  master  without  breaking  it.  A 
human  brain  and  nerves  confined  him.  He  could  deal  with 
essences  only,  those  essential,  buried,  semi-elemental  powers 
that  lie  ever  waiting  below  the  threshold  of  all  human  con- 
sciousness, linking  men,  did  they  but  know  it,  direct  with 
the  sea  of  universal  life  which  is  inexhaustible,  independent 
of  space  and  time.  The  fraction  of  his  nature  which  had 
manifested  as  a  transient  surface-personality — LeVallon — 
was  gone  for  ever,  merged  in  the  real  self  below. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  235 

His  origin  was  already  forgotten;  no  memory  of  it  lay 
in  his  present  brain ;  he  must  suffer  training,  education,  and 
he  turned  instinctively  to  those  whose  ideal,  like  his  own, 
was  one  of  impersonal  service.  To  a  woman  he  turned, 
and  to  a  man.  His  recognition,  guided  by  Nature,  was  sure 
and  accurate.  It  must  take  time  and  patience,  sympathy 
and  love,  faith,  belief  and  trust,  and  the  labour  must  be 
borne  by  one  man  chiefly — by  Fillery,  into  whose  life  had 
come  this  strange  bright  messenger  carrying  glad  tidings 
...  to  prove  at  last  that  man  was  greater  than  he  knew, 
that  the  hope  for  Humanity,  for  the  deteriorating  Race, 
for  crumbling  Civilization,  lay  in  drawing  out  into  full  prac- 
tical consciousness  the  divine  powers  concealed  below  the 
threshold  of  every  single  man  and  woman.  .  .  . 

But  how,  in  what  practical  manner,  what  instrument  could 
they  use?  The  human  mechanism,  the  brain,  the  mind, 
afforded  inadequate  means  of  manifestation ;  new  wines  into 
old  skins  meant  disaster ;  knowledge,  power  beyond  the  ex- 
perience of  the  Race  needed  a  better  instrument  than  the 
one  the  Race  had  painfully  evolved  for  present  uses.  New 
powers  of  unknown  kinds,  as  already  in  those  rare  cases 
when  the  supernormal  forces  emerged,  could  only  strain 
the  machinery  and  cause  disorder.  A  new  order  of  con- 
sciousness required  another,  a  different  equipment.  And 
the  idea  flashed  into  him,  as  in  the  Studio  when  he  watched 
"N.  H."  and  the  girl — Father  Collins  had  divined  its  pos- 
sibility as  well — the  idea  of  a  group  consciousness,  a  collec- 
tive group-soul.  What  a  single  individual  might  not  be 
able  to  resist  at  first  without  disaster,  many — a  group  in 
harmony — two  or  three  gathered  together  in  unfson — these 
might  provide  the  way,  the  means,  the  instrument — the  body. 

"The  personal  merged  in  the  impersonal,"  he  exclaimed 
to  the  night  about  him,  already  aware  that  words,  expres- 
sion, failed  even  at  this  early  stage  of  understanding. 
"Beauty,  Art!  Where  words,  form,  colour  end,  we  shall 
construct,  while  yet  using  these  as  far  as  they  go,  a  new 
vehicle,  a  new " 


236  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"Good  evenin',"  said  a  gruff  voice.  "Good  evenin',  sir," 
it  added  more  respectfully,  after  a  second's  inspection. 
"Turned  out  quite  fine  after  the  storm." 

Aware  of  the  policeman  suddenly,  Fillery  started  and 
turned  round  abruptly.  Evidently  he  had  uttered  his 
thoughts  aloud,  probably  had  cried  and  shouted  them.  He 
could  think  of  nothing  in  the  world  to  say. 

"It  was  a  terrible  storm.  I  hardly  ever  see  the  likes 
of  it."  The  man  was  looking  at  him  still  with  doubtful 
curiosity. 

"Extraordinary,  yes."  Dr.  Fillery  managed  to  find  a 
few  natural  words.  It  was  an  early  hour  in  the  morning 
to  be  out,  and  his  position  by  the  pond,  he  now  realized, 
might  have  suggested  an  undesirable  intention.  "It  made 
sleep  impossible,  and  I  came  out  to — to  take  a  walk.  I'm 
a  doctor,  Dr.  Fillery — the  Fillery  Home." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  man,  apparently  satisfied.  He  looked 
at  the  sky.  "All  blown  away  again,"  he  remarked,  "and  the 
moon  that  nice  and  bright " 

Fillery  offered  something  in  reply,  then  moved  away.  The 
moon,  he  noticed,  was  indeed  nice  and  bright  now ;  the  heavy 
lower  vapours  all  had  vanished,  and  thin  cirrus  clouds  at 
a  great  height  moved,  slowly  before  an  upper  wind;  the 
stars  shone  clearly,  and  a  faint  line  of  colour  gave  a  hint 
of  dawn  not  far  away. 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.    It  was  nearly  half-past  four. 

"It's  impossible,  impossible,"  he  thought  to  himself,  the 
pictures  he  had  been  seeing  still  hanging  before  his  eyes. 
"It  was  all  feeling — merely  feeling.  My  blood,  my  heritage 
asserting  themselves  upon  an  over-tired  system !  Too  much 
repression  evidently.  I  must  find  an  outlet.  My  Caucasian 
Valley  again!" 

He  walked  rapidly.  His  mind  began  to  work,  and  think- 
ing made  an  effort  to  replace  feeling.  He  watched  himself. 
His  everyday  surface-consciousness  partially  resumed  its 
sway.  The  policeman,  of  course,  had  interrupted  the  flow 
and  inrush  of  another  state  just  at  the  moment  when  a 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  £37 

flash  of  direct  knowledge  was  about  to  blaze.  It  concerned 
"N.  H.,"  his  new  patient.  In  another  moment  he  would 
have  known  exactly  what  and  who  he  was,  whence  he  came, 
the  purpose  and  the  powers  that  attended  him.  The  police- 
man— and  inner  laughter  ran  through  him  at  this  juxta- 
position of  the  practical  and  the  transcendental — had 
interfered  with  an  interesting  expansion  of  his  being.  An 
extension  of  consciousness,  perhaps  a  touch  of  cosmic  con- 
sciousness, was  on  the  way.  The  first  faint  quiver  of  its 
coming,  magical  with  wondrous  joy,  had  touched  him.  Its 
cause,  its  origin,  he  knew  not,  yet  he  could  trace  both  to 
the  effect  produced  upon  him  by  "N.  H."  Of  that  he  was 
sure.  This  effect  his  reasoning  mind,  with  busy  analysis 
and  criticism,  had  hitherto  partially  suppressed,  even  at  its 
first  manifestation  in  Charing  Cross  Station.  To-night, 
criticism  silent  and  analysis  inactive,  it  had  found  an  outlet, 
his  own  deep  inner  stillness  had  been  its  opportunity.  Then 
came  the  practical,  honest,  simple  policeman,  the  censor, 
who  received  so  much  a  week  to  keep  people  in  the  way 
they  ought  to  follow,  the  safe,  broad  way.  .  .  . 

He  smiled,  as  he  walked  rapidly  along  the  deserted  streets. 
He  knew  so  well  the  method  and  process  of  these  abnormal 
states  in  others.  As  he  swung  along,  not  tired  now,  but 
rested,  rather,  and  invigorated,  the  rhythm  of  motion  es- 
tablished itself  again.  "N.  H."  a  Nature  Spirit !  A  Nature 
Being!  Another  order  of  life  entering  humanity  for  the 
first  time,  that  humanity  for  whose  welfare  it — or  was  it 
he? — had  worked,  with  hosts  of  similar  beings,  during  in- 
calculable ages.  .  .  , 

He  smiled,  remembering  the  policeman  again.  There  was 
always  a  policeman,  or  a  censor.  Oh,  the  exits  beyond  safe 
normal  states  of  being,  the  exits  into  extended  fields  of 
consciousness,  into  an  outer  life  which  the  majority,  led 
by  the  best  minds  of  the  day,  deny  with  an  oath — these 
were  well  guarded!  His  smile,  as  he  thought  of  it,  ran 
from  his  lips  and  settled  in  the  eyes,  lingering  a  moment 
there  before  it  died  away.  .  .  . 


238  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

How  quiet,  yet  unfamiliar,  the  suburb  of  the  huge  city 
lay  about  him  in  pale  half-light.  The  Studio  scene,  how 
distant  it  seemed  now  in  space  and  time;  it  had  happened 
weeks  ago  in  another  city  somewhere.  Devonham,  his  cau- 
tious, experienced  assistant,  how  far  away!  He  belonged 
to  another  age.  The  Prometheans  were  part  of  a  dream  in 
childhood,  a  dream  of  pantomime  or  harlequinade  whose 
extravagance  yet  conveyed  symbolic  meaning.  Two  figures 
alone  retained  a  reality  that  refused  to  be  dismissed — a 
mysterious,  enigmatic  youth,  a  radiant  girl — with  perhaps 
a  third — a  broken  priest.  .  .  . 

The  rhythm,  meanwhile,  gained  upon  him,  and,  as  it  did. 
so,  thinking  once  more  withdrew  and  feeling  stole  back 
softly.  His  being  became  more  harmonized,  more  one  with 
itself,  more  open  to  inspiration.  .  .  .  "N.  H.,"  whose  work 
was  service,  service  everywhere,  not  merely  in  that  tiny 
corner  of  the  universe  called  Humanity.  .  .  .  "N.  H.,"  who 
could  neither  age  nor  die.  .  .  .  What  was  the  hidden  link 
that  bound  them  ?  Had  they  not  served  and  played  together 
in  some  lost  Caucasian  valley,  leaped  with  the  sun's  hot  fire, 
flown  in  the  winds  of  dawn  .  .  .  sung,  laughed  and  danced 
at  their  service,  with  a  radiant  sylph-like  girl  who  had  at 
last  enticed  them  into  the  confinement  of  a  limited  human 
form?  .  .  .  Did  not  that  valley  symbolize,  indeed,  another 
state  of  existence,  another  order  of  consciousness  altogether 
that  lay  beyond  any  known  present  experience  or  descrip- 
tion .  .  .? 

The  dawn,  meanwhile,  grew  nearer  and  a  pallid  light  ran 
down  the  dreadful  streets.  .  .  .  He  reached  at  length  the 
foot  of  the  hill  upon  whose  shoulder  his  own  house  stood. 
The  familiar  sights  stirred  more  familiar  currents  of  feeling, 
and  these  in  turn  sought  words.  .  .  . 

The  crowding  houses,  with  their  tight-shut  windows,  fol- 
lowed and  pressed  after  as  he  climbed.  They  swarmed 
behind  him.  How  choked  and  airless  it  all  was.  He  thought 
of  the  heavy-footed  routine  of  the  thousands  who  occupied 
these  pretentious  buildings.  Here  lived  a  section  of  the 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  239 

greatest  city  on  the  planet,  almost  a  separate  little  town, 
with  marked  characteristics,  atmosphere,  tastes  and  habits. 
How  many,  he  wondered,  behind  those  walls  knew  yearning, 
belief,  imagination  beyond  the  ruck  and  routine  of  familiar 
narrow  thought?  Rows  upon  rows,  with  their  stunted, 
manufactured  trees,  hideous  conservatories,  bulging  porches, 
ornamented  windows — his  wings  beat  against  them  all  with 
the  burning  desire  to  set  their  inmates  free.  They  caged 
themselves  in  deliberately.  A  few  thousand  years  ago  these 
people  lived  in  mud  huts,  before  that  in  caves,  before  that 
again  in  trees.  Now  they  were  "civilized."  They  dwelt 
in  these  cages.  Oh,  that  he  might  tear  away  the  thick  dead 
bricks,  and  let  in  light  and  dew  and  stars,  and  the  brave, 
free  winds  of  heaven!  Waken  the  deeper  powers  they 
carried  unwittingly  about  with  them  through  all  their  tedious 
sufferings!  Teach  them  that  they  were  greater  than  they 
knew! 

The  yearning  was  deep  and  true  in  him,  as  the  houses 
followed  and  tried  to  bar  his  way.  Many  of  the  occupiers, 
he  knew,  would  welcome  help,  would  gaze  with  happy, 
astonished  eyes  at  the  wonder  of  their  own  greater  selves 
set  free.  Not  all,  of  course,  were  wingless.  Yet  the  ma- 
jority, he  felt,  were  otherwise.  They  peered  at  him  from 
behind  thick  curtains,  hostile,  sceptical,  contented  with  their 
lot,  averse  to  change.  Mode,  custom,  habit  chained  them 
to  the  floor.  He  was  aware  of  a  collective  obstinate  grin 
of  smug  complacency,  of  dull  resistance.  Though  a  part 
of  the  community,  of  the  race,  of  the  world,  of  the  universe 
itself,  they  denied  their  mighty  brotherhood,  and  clung 
tenaciously  to  their  idea  of  living  apart,  cut  off  and  separate. 
They  belonged  to  leagues,  societies,  clubs  and  circles,  but 
the  bigger  oneness  of  the  race  they  did  not  know.  Of 
greater  powers  in  themselves  they  had  no  faintest  inkling. 
At  the  first  sign  of  these,  they  would  shuffle,  sneer  and  turn 
away,  grow  frightened  even. 

The  yearning  to  show  them  a  bigger  field  of  conscious- 
ness, to  help  them  towards  a  realization  of  their  buried 


240  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

powers,  to  let  them  out  of  their  separate  cages,  beat  through 
his  being  with  a  passionate  sincerity.  ...  In  a  hundred 
thousand  years  perhaps!  Perhaps  in  a  million!  He  knew 
the  slow  gait  that  Nature  loved.  The  trend  of  an  Age  is 
not  to  be  stemmed  by  one  man,  nor  by  twelve,  who  see 
over  the  horizon.  The  futility  of  trying  pained  him.  Yet, 
if  no  one  ever  tried !  Oh,  for  a  few  swift  strokes  of  awful 
sacrifice — then  freedom! 

The  words  came  back  to  him,  and  with  them,  from  the 
same  source,  came  others:  "I  sit  and  I  weave.  ...  I  sit 
and  I  weave."  .  .  .  Whose,  then,  was  this  divine,  eternal 
patience?  .  .  . 

There  could  be,  it  seemed,  no  hurried  growth,  no  instant 
escape,  no  sudden  leap  to  heaven.  Slowly,  slowly,  the  Ages 
turned  the  wheel.  "Nor  can  other  beings  help,"  he  remem- 
bered; "they  can  only  tell  what  their  own  part  is."  .  .  . 
And  as  his  clear  mind  saw  the  present  Civilization  like  all 
its  wonderful  predecessors,  tottering  before  his  very  eyes, 
threatening  in  its  collapse,  the  extinction  of  knowledge  so 
slowly,  painfully,  laboriously  acquired,  the  deep  heart  in 
him  rose  as  on  wings  of  wind  and  fire,  questing  the  stars 
above.  There  was  this  strange  clash  in  him,  as  though  two 
great  divisions  in  his  being  struggled.  A  way  of  escape 
seemed  just  within  his  reach,  only  a  little  beyond  the  horizon 
of  his  actual  knowledge.  It  fluttered  marvellously ;  golden, 
alight,  inviting.  Its  coming  glory  brushed  his  insight.  It 
was  simple,  it  was  divine.  There  seemed  a  faint  knocking 
against  the  doors  of  his  mental  and  spiritual  understand- 
ing. .  .  . 

"  'N.  H.' !"  he  cried,  "Bright  Messenger !" 

He  paused  a  moment  and  stood  still.  A  new  sound  lay 
suddenly  in  the  night.  It  came,  apparently,  from  far  away, 
almost  from  the  air  above  him.  He  listened.  No,  after 
all  it  was  only  steps.  They  came  nearer.  A  pedestrian, 
muffled  to  the  ears,  went  past,  and  the  steps  died  away 
on  the  resounding  pavement  round  the  corner.  Yet  the 
sound  continued,  and  was  not  the  echo  of  the  steps  just 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  241 

gone.  It  was,  moreover,  he  now  felt  convinced,  in  the  air 
above  him.  It  was  continuous.  It  reminded  him  of  the 
musical  droning  hum  that  a  big  bell  leaves  behind  it,  while 
a  suggestion  of  rhythm,  almost  of  melody,  ran  faintly 
through  it  too. 

Somebody's  lines — was  it  Shelley's? — ran  faintly  in  his 
mind,  yet  it  was  not  his  mind  now  that  surged  and  rose 
to  the  new  great  rhythm: 

"  'Tis  the  deep  music  of  the  rolling  world 
Kindling  within  the  strings  of  the  waved  air 
^olian  modulations.  .  .  . 
Clear,  icy,  keen  awakening  tones 
That  pierce  the  sense 
And  live  within  the  soul.  .  .  ." 

He  listened.  It  was  a  simple,  natural,  happy  sound — 
simple  as  running  water,  natural  as  wind,  happy  as  the 
song  of  birds.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XX 

HE  became,  again,  vividly  aware  of  the  power  and 
presence  of  "N.  H." 

He  was  not  far  from  his  house  now  on  the  shoulder  of 
the  hill.  He  turned  his  eyes  upwards,  where  the  three- 
quarter  moon  sailed  above  transparent  cirrus  clouds  that 
scarcely  dimmed  her  light.  Like  dappled  sands  of  silver, 
they  sifted  her  soft  shining,  moving  slowly  across  the 
heavens  before  an  upper  wind.  The  sound  continued. 

For  a  moment  or  two,  in  the  pale  light  of  dawn,  he 
watched  and  listened,  then  lowered  his  gaze,  caught  his 
breath  sharply,  and  stood  stock  still.  He  stared  in  front 
of  him.  Next,  turning  slowly,  he  stared  right  and  left.  He 
stared  behind  as  well. 

Yes,  it  was  true.  The  lines  and  rows  of  crowding  houses 
trembled,  disappeared.  The  heavy  buildings  dissolved  be- 
fore his  very  eyes.  The  solid  walls  and  roofs  were  gone, 
the  chimneys,  railings,  doors  and  porches  vanished.  There 
were  no  more  conservatories.  There  were  no  lamp-posts. 
The  streets  themselves  had  melted.  He  gazed  in  amazement 
and  delight.  The  entire  hill  lay  bare  and  open  to  the  sky. 

Across  the  rising  upland  swept  a  keen  fresh  morning 
wind.  Yet  bare  they  were  not,  this  rising  upland  and 
this  hill.  As  far  as  he  could  see,  the  landscape  flowed 
waist-deep  in  flowers,  whose  fragrance  lay  upon  the  air; 
dew  trembled,  shimmering  on  a  million  petals  of  blue  and 
gold,  of  orange,  purple,  violet ;  the  very  atmosphere  seemed 
painted.  Flowering  trees,  both  singly  and  in  groves,  waved 
in  the  breeze,  birds  sang  in  chorus,  there  was  a  murmur 
of  streams  and  falling  waters.  Yet  that  other  sound  rose 
too,  rose  from  the  entire  hill  and  all  upon  it,  a  continuous 

242 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  243 

gentle  rhythm,  as  though,  he  felt,  the  actual  scenery  poured 
forth  its  being  in  spontaneous,  natural  expression  of  sound 
as  well  as  of  form  and  colour.  It  was  the  simplest,  happiest 
music  he  had  ever  heard. 

Unable  to  deal  with  the  rapture  of  delight  that  swept 
upon  him,  he  stood  stock  still  among  the  blossoms  to  his 
waist.  Eyes,  ears  and  nostrils  were  inadequate  to  report 
a  beauty  which,  simple  though  it  was,  overbore  nerves  and 
senses  accustomed  to  a  lesser  scale.  Horizons  indeed  had 
lifted,  the  joy  and  confidence  of  fuller  life  poured  in.  His 
own  being  grew  immense,  stretched,  widened,  deepened,  till 
it  seemed  to  include  all  space.  He  was  everywhere,  or 
rather  everything  was  happening  somewhere  in  him  all  at 
once.  ...  In  place  of  the  heavy  suburb  lay  this  garden" 
of  primal  beauty,  while  yet,  in  a  sense,  the  suburb  itself 
remained  as  well.  Only — it  had  flowered  .  .  .  revealing  the 
subconscious  soul  the  bricks  and  pavements  hid.  .  .  .  Its 
potential  self  had  blossomed  into  loveliness  and  wonder. 

The  sound  drew  nearer.  He  was  aware  of  movement. 
Figures  were  approaching;  they  were  coming  in  his  direc- 
tion, coming  towards  him  over  the  crest  of  the  hill,  nearer 
and  nearer.  Concealed  by  the  forest  of  tall  flowers,  he 
watched  them  come.  Yet  as  Presences  he  perceived  them, 
rather  than  as  figures,  already  borrowing  power  from  them, 
as  sails  borrow  from  a  rising  wind.  His  consciousness  ex- 
panded marvellously  to  let  them  in. 

Their  stature  was  conveyed  to  him,  chiefly,  at  first,  by 
the  fact  that  these  flowers,  though  rising  to  his  own  waist, 
did  not  cover  the  feet  of  them,  yet  that  the  flowers  in  the 
immediate  line  of  their  advance  still  swayed  and  nodded, 
as  though  no  weight  had  lain  upon  their  brilliance.  The 
footsteps  were  of  wind,  the  figures  light  as  air;  they  shone; 
their  radiant  presences  lit  the  acres.  Their  own  atmosphere, 
too,  came  with  them,  as  though  the  landscape  moved  and 
travelled  with  and  in  their  being,  as  though  the  flowers,  the 
natural  beauty,  emanated  from  them.  The  landscape  was 
their  atmosphere.  They  created,  brought  it  with  them.  It 


244  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

seemed  that  they  "expressed"  the  landscape  and  "were" 
the  scenery,  with  all  its  multitudinous  forms. 

They  approached  with  a  great  and  easy  speed  that  was 
not  measurable.  Over  the  crest  of  the  living,  sunlit  hill 
they  poured,  with  their  bulk,  their  speed,  their  majesty, 
their  sweet  brimming  joy.  Fillery  stood  motionless  watch- 
ing them,  his  own  joy  touched  with  awed  confusion,  till 
wonder  and  worship  mastered  the  final  trace  of  fear. 

Though  he  perceived  these  figures  first  as  they  topped 
the  skyline,  he  was  aware  that  great  space  also  stretched 
behind  them,  and  that  this  immense  perspective  was  in  some 
way  appropriate  to  their  appearance.  Born  of  a  greater 
space  than  his  "mind"  could  understand,  they  flowed  to- 
wards him  across  that  windy  crest  and  at  the  same  time 
from  infinitely  far  beyond  it.  Above  the  continuous  hum- 
ming sound,  he  heard  their  music  too,  faint  but  mighty, 
filling  the  air  with  deep  vibrations  that  seemed  the  natural 
expression  of  their  joyful  beings.  Each  figure  was  a  chord, 
yet  all  combining  in  a  single  harmony  that  had  volume 
without  loudness.  It  seemed  to  him  that  their  sound  and 
colour  and  movement  wove  a  new  pattern  upon  space,  a 
new  outline,  form  or  growth,  perhaps  a  flower,  a  tree, 
perhaps  a  planet.  .  .  .  They  were  creative.  They  expressed 
themselves  naturally  in  a  million  forms. 

He  heard,  he  saw.  He  knew  no  other  words  to  use. 
But  the  "hearing"  was,  rather,  some  kind  of  intimate  pos- 
session so  that  his  whole  being  filled  and  overbrimmed ;  and 
the  "sight"  was  greater  than  the  customary  little  irritation 
of  the  optic  nerve — it  involved  another  term  of  space.  He 
could  describe  the  sight  more  readily  than  the  hearing.  The 
apparent  contradiction  of  distance  and  proximity,  of  vast 
size  yet  intimacy,  made  him  tremble  in  his  hiding-place. 

His  "sight,"  at  any  rate,  perceived  the  approaching  figures 
all  round,  all  over,  all  at  once,  as  they  poured  like  a  wave 
across  the  hill  from  far  beyond  its  visible  crest.  For  into 
this  space  below  the  horizon  he  saw  as  well,  though,  normally 
speaking,  it  was  out  of  sight.  Nor  did  he  see  one  side 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  245 

only;  he  saw  the  backs  of  the  towering  forms  as  easily 
as  the  portion  facing  him;  he  saw  behind  them.  It  was 
not  as  with  ordinary  objects  refracting  light,  the  back  and 
underneath  and  further  edges  invisible.  All  sides  were 
visible  at  once.  The  space  beyond,  moreover,  whence  the 
mighty  outlines  issued,  was  of  such  immensity  that  he  could 
think  only  of  interstellar  regions.  Not  to  the  little  planet, 
then,  did  these  magnificent  shapes  belong.  They  were  of 
the  Universe.  The  symbol  of  his  valley,  he  knew  suddenly, 
belonged  here  too. 

Silent  with  wonder,  motionless  with  worship,  he  watched 
the  singing  flood  of  what  he  felt  to  be  immense,  non-human 
nature-life  pour  past  him.  The  procession  lasted  for  hours, 
yet  was  over  in  a  minute's  flash.  All  categories  his  mind 
knew  hitherto  were  useless.  The  faces,  in  their  power, 
their  majesty,  the  splendour  even  of  their  extent,  were  both 
appalling,  yet  infinitely  tender.  They  were  filled  with  stars, 
blue  distance,  flowers,  spirals  of  fire,  space  and  air,  inter- 
woven too,  with  shining  geometrical  designs  whose  intricate 
patterns  merged  in  a  central  harmony.  They  brought  their 
own  winds  with  them. 

Yet  of  features  precisely,  he  was  not  aware.  Each  face 
was,  rather,  an  immense  expression,  but  an  expression  that 
was  permanent  and  could  not  change.  These  were  im- 
mutable, eternal  faces.  He  borrowed  from  human  terms 
the  only  words  that  offered,  while  aware  that  he  falsely 
introduced  the  personal  into  that  which  was  essentially  im- 
personal. 

There  stole  over  him  a  strange  certainty  that  what  he 
worshipped  was  the  grandeur  of  joyful  service  working 
through  unalterable  law — the  great  compassion  of  some  un- 
tiring service  that  was  deathless.  .  .  .  He  stood  within  the 
Universe,  face  to  face  with  its  elemental  builders,  guardians, 
its  constructive  artizans,  the  impersonal  angelic  powers  .  .  . 
the  region,  the  state,  he  now  felt  convinced,  to  which  "N. 
H."  belonged,  and  whence,  by  some  inexplicable  chance, 
he  had  come  to  occupy  a  human  body.  .  .  .  And  the  sounds 


246  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

— the  flash  came  to  him  with  lightning  conviction — were 
those  essential  rhythms  which  are  the  kernels  of  all  visible, 
manifested  forms.  .  .  . 

He  was  not  aware  that  he  was  moving,  that  he  had  left 
the  spot  where  he  had  stood — so  long,  yet  for  a  single 
second  only — and  had  now  reached  the  corner  of  a  street 
again.  The  flowers  were  gone,  and  the  trees  and  groves 
gone  with  them;  no  waters  rippled  past;  there  was  no 
shining  hill.  The  moon,  the  stars,  the  breaking  dawn  re- 
mained, but  he  saw  windows,  walls  and  villas  once  again, 
while  his  feet  echoed  on  dead  stone  pavements.  .  .  . 

Yet  the  figures  had  not  wholly  gone.  Before  a  house, 
where  he  now  paused  a  moment,  the  towering,  flowing  out- 
lines were  still  faintly  visible.  Their  singing  still  audible, 
their  shapes  still  gently  luminous,  they  stood  grouped  about 
an  open  window  of  the  second  story.  In  the  front  garden 
a  big  plane  tree  stirred  its  leafless  branches;  the  tree  and 
figures  interpenetrated.  Slowly  then,  the  outlines  grew  dim 
and  shadowy,  indistinguishable  almost  from  the  objects  in 
the  twilight  near  them.  Chimneys,  walls  and  roofs  stole 
in  upon  the  great  shapes  with  foreign,  grosser  details  that 
obscured  their  harmony,  confused  their  proportion,  as  with 
two  sets  of  values.  The  eye  refused  to  focus  both  at  once. 
A  roof,  a  chimney  obtruded,  while  sight  struggled,  fluttered, 
then  ended  in  confusion.  The  figures  faded  and  melted 
out.  They  merged  with  the  tree,  the  reddening  sky,  the 
murky  air  close  to  the  house  which  a  street  lamp  made 
visible.  Suddenly  they  were  lost — they  were  no  longer 
there. 

But  the  rhythmical  sound,  though  fainter,  still  continued 
— and  Fillery  looked  up. 

It  was  a  sound,  he  realized  in  a  flash,  evocative  and 
summoning.  Type  called  to  type,  brother  to  brother,  across 
the  universe.  The  house  before  him  was  his  own,  and  the 
open  window  through  which  the  music  issued  was  the  bed- 
room of  "N.  H." 


THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER  247 

He  stood  transfixed.  Both  sides  of  his  complex  nature 
operated  simultaneously.  His  mind  worked  more  clearly 
— the  entire  history  of  the  "case"  in  that  upstairs  room 
passed  through  it:  he  was  a  doctor.  But  his  speculative, 
emotional  aspect,  the  dreamer  in  him,  so  greatly  daring, 
all  that  poetic,  transcendental,  half -mystical  part  which 
classed  him,  he  well  knew,  with  the  unstable ;  all  this,  long 
and  dangerously  repressed,  worked  with  opposite,  if  equal 
pressure.  From  the  subconscious  rose  violent  hands  as  of 
wind  and  fire,  lovely,  fashioning,  divine,  tearing  away  the 
lid  of  the  reasoning  surface-consciousness  that  confined, 
confused  them. 

To  disentangle,  to  define  these  separate  functions,  were 
a  difficult  problem  even  for  the  most  competent  psychiatrist. 
Creative  imaginative  powers,  hitherto  merely  fumbling,  half 
denied  as  well,  now  stretched  their  wings  and  soared.  With 
them  came  a  blinding  clarity  of  sight  that  enabled  him  to 
focus  a  vast  field  of  detail  with  extraordinary  rapidity. 
Horizons  had  lifted,  perspective  deepened  and  lit  up.  In  a 
few  brief  seconds,  before  his  front  door  opened,  a  hundred 
details  flashed  towards  a  focus  and  shone  concentrated: 

The  Vision,  of  course — the  Figures  had  now  melted  into 
the  night — had  no  objective  reality.  Suppressed  passion 
had  created  them,  forbidden  yearnings  had  passed  the  Cen- 
sor and  dramatized  a  dream,  set  aside  yet  never  explained, 
that  heredity  was  responsible  for.  Both  were  born  of  his 
lost  radiant  valley.  His  Note  Books  held  a  thousand  similar 
cases.  .  .  . 

But  the  speculative  dreamer  flashed  coloured  lights  against 
this  common  white.  The  prism  blazed.  From  the  inter- 
stellar spaces  came  these  radiant  figures,  from  Sirius,  im- 
mense and  splendid  sun,  from  Aldebaran  among  the  happy 
Hyades,  from  awful  Betelgeuse,  whose  volume  fills  a  Mar- 
tian orbit.  Their  dazzling,  giant  grandeur  was  of  stellar 
origin.  Yet,  equally,  they  came  from  the  dreadful  back 
gardens  of  those  sordid  houses.  Nature  was  Nature  every- 
where, in  the  nebulae  as  in  the  stifled  plane  tree  of  a  city 


248  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

court.  That  he  saw  them  as  "figures"  was  but  his  own 
private,  personal  interpretation  of  a  prophecy  the  whole 
Universe  announced.  They  were  not  figures  necessarily; 
they  were  Powers.  And  "N.  H."  was  of  their  kind. 

He  suddenly  remembered  the  small,  troubled  earth 
whereon  he  lived — a  neglected  corner  of  the  universe  that 
was  in  distress  and  cried  frantically  for  help.  .  .  .  Alcyone 
caught  it  in  her  golden  arms  perhaps;  Sirius  thundered 
against  its  little  ears.  .  .  . 

He  found  his  latchkey  and  fumblingly  inserted  it,  but, 
even  while  he  did  so,  the  state  of  the  planet  at  the  moment 
poured  into  his  mind  with  swift,  concentrated  detail;  he 
remembered  the  wireless  excitement  of  the  instant — and 
smiled.  Not  that  way  would  it  come.  The  new  order  was 
of  a  spiritual  kind.  It  would  steal  into  men's  hearts,  not 
splutter  along  the  waves  of  ether,  as  the  "dead"  are  said 
to  splutter  to  the  "living."  The  great  impulse,  the  mighty 
invitation  Nature  sent  out  to  return  to  simple,  natural  life, 
would  come,  without  "phenomena"  from  within.  .  .  .  He 
remembered  Relativity — that  space  is  local,  space  and  time 
not  separate  entities.  He  understood.  He  had  just  ex- 
perienced it.  Another,  a  fourth  dimension!  Space  as  a 
whole  was  annihilated !  He  smiled. 

His  latchkey  turned. 

The  transmutation  of  metals  flashed  past  him — all  sub- 
stance one.  His  latchkey  was  upside  down.  He  turned  it 
round  and  reinserted  it,  and  the  results  of  advanced 
psychology  rushed  at  him,  as  though  the  sun  rushed  over 
the  horizon  of  some  Eastern  clime,  covering  all  with  the 
light  of  a  new,  fair  dawn. 

In  a  few  seconds  this  accumulation  of  recent  knowledge 
and  discovery  flooded  his  state  of  singular  receptiveness — 
as  thinker  and  as  poet.  The  Age  was  crumbling,  civilization 
passing  like  its  predecessors.  The  little  planet  lay  certainly 
in  distress.  No  true  help  lay  within  it;  its  reservoirs  were 
empty.  No  adequate  constructive  men  or  powers  were  any- 
where in  sight.  It  was  exhausted,  dying.  Unless  new  help, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  249 

powers  from  a  new,  an  inexhaustible  source,  came  quickly 
...  a  new  vehicle  for  their  expression.  .  .  . 

And  wonder  took  him  by  the  throat  ...  as  the  key 
turned  in  the  lock  with  its  familiar  grating  sound,  and  the 
door,  without  actual  pressure  on  his  part,  swung  open. 

Paul  Devonham,  a  look  of  bright  terror  in  his  eyes,  stood 
on  the  threshold. 


The  expression,  not  only  of  the  face  but  of  the  whole 
person,  he  had  seen  once  only  in  another  human  countenance 
• — a  climber,  who  had  slipped  by  his  very  side  and  dropped 
backward  into  empty  space.  The  look  of  helpless  bewilder- 
ment as  hands  and  feet  lost  final  touch  with  solidity,  the 
air  of  terrible  yet  childlike  amazement  with  which  he  began 
his  descent  of  a  thousand  feet  through  a  gulf  of  air — the 
shock  marked  the  face  in  a  single  second  with  what  he  now 
saw  in  his  colleague's  eyes.  Only,  with  Devonham — Fillery 
felt  sure  of  his  diagnosis — the  lost  hold  was  mental. 

His  outward  control,  however,  was  admirable.  Devon- 
ham's  voice,  apart  from  a  certain  tenseness  in  it,  was  quiet 
enough:  "I've  been  telephoning  everywhere.  .  .  .  There's 
been  a — a  crisis " 

"Violence?" 

But  the  other  shook  his  head.  "It's  all  beyond  me  quite," 
he  said,  with  a  wry  smile.  "The  first  outbreak  was  nothing 
— nothing  compared  to  this."  The  continuous  sound  of 
humming  which  filled  the  hall,  making  the  air  vibrate  oddly, 
grew  louder.  Devonham  seized  his  friend's  arm. 

"Listen!"  he  whispered.     "You  hear  that?" 

"I  heard  it  outside  in  the  street,"  Fillery  said.  ''What 
is  it?" 

Devonham  glared  at  him.  "God  knows,"  he  said,  'I  don't. 
He's  been  doing  it,  on  and  off,  for  a  couple  of  hours.  It 
began  the  moment  you  left,  it  seems.  They're  all  about 
him — these  vibrations,  I  mean.  He  does  it  with  his  whole 
body  somehow.  And" — he  hesitated — "there's  meaning  in 


250  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

it  of  some  kind.  Results,  I  mean,"  he  jerked  out  with  an 
effort. 

"Visible?"  came  the  gentle  question. 

Devonham  started.  "How  did  you  know?"  There  was 
a  thrust  of  intense  curiosity  in  the  eyes. 

"I've  had  a  similar  experience  myself,  Paul.  You  opened 
the  front  door  in  the  middle  of  it.  The  figures " 

"You  saw  figures?"  Devonham  looked  thunderstruck.  In 
his  heart  was  obviously  a  touch  of  panic. 

As  the  two  men  stood  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes  a 
moment  silently,  the  sound  about  them  increased  again, 
rising  and  falling,  its  great  separate  rhythmical  waves  almost 
distinguishable.  In  Fillery's  mind  rose  patterns,  outlines, 
forms  of  flowers,  spirals,  circles.  .  .  . 

"He  knows  you're  in  the  house,"  said  Devonham  in  a 
curious  voice,  relieved  apparently  no  answer  came  to  his 
question.  "Better  come  upstairs  at  once  and  see  him."  But 
he  did  not  turn  to  lead  the  way.  "That's  not  auditory 
hallucination,  Edward,  whatever  else  it  is!"  He  was  still 
clinging  to  the  rock,  but  the  rock  was  crumbling  beneath 
his  desperate  touch.  Space  yawned  below  him. 

"Visual,"  suggested  Fillery,  as  though  he  held  out  a  feeble 
hand  to  the  man  whose  whole  weight  already  hung  unsup- 
ported before  the  plunge.  His  friend  spoke  no  word;  but 
his  expression  made  words  unnecessary:  "We  must  face 
the  facts,"  it  said  plainly,  "wherever  these  may  lead.  No 
shirking,  no  prejudice  of  mine  or  yours  must  interfere. 
There  must  be  no  faltering  now." 

So  plainly  was  *his  passion  for  truth  and  knowledge  legible 
in  the  expression  of  the  shocked  but  honest  mind,  that  Fillery 
felt  compassion  overpower  the  first  attitude  of  privacy  he 
had  meant  to  take.  This  time  he  must  share.  The  honesty 
of  the  other  won  his  confidence  too  fully  for  him  to  hold 
back  anything.  There  was  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  he 
read  his  colleague's  state  aright. 

"A  moment,  Paul,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "before  we  go 
upstairs,"  and  he  put  his  hand  out,  oddly  enough  meeting 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  -  251 

Devonham's  hand  already  stretched  to  meet  it.  He  drew 
him  aside  into  a  corner  of  the  hall,  while  the  waves  of  sound 
surged  round  and  over  them  like  a  sea.  "Let  me  first  tell 
you,"  he  went  on,  his  voice  trembling  slightly,  "my  own 
experience."  It  seemed  to  him  that  any  moment  he  must 
see  the  birth  of  a  new  form,  an  outline,  a  "body"  dance 
across  before  his  very  eyes. 

"Neither  auditory  nor  visual,"  murmured  Devonham, 
burning  to  hear  what  was  coming,  yet  at  the  same  time 
shrinking  from  it  by  the  laws  of  his  personality.  "Hallu- 
cination of  any  kind,  there  is  absolutely  none.  There's  noth- 
ing transferred  from  your  mind  to  his.  This  thing  is  real — 
original." 

Fillery  tightened  his  grip  a  second  on  the  hand  he  held. 

"Paul,"  he  said  gravely,  yet  unable  to  hide  the  joy  of 
recent  ecstasy  in  his  eyes,  "it  is  also — new !" 

The  low  syllables  seemed  borne  away  and  lifted  beyond 
their  reach  by  an  immense  vibration  that  swept  softly  past 
them.  And  so  actual  was  this  invisible  wave  that  behind 
it  lay  the  trough,  the  ebb,  that  awaits,  as  in  the  sea,  the 
next  advancing  crest.  Into  this  ebb,  as  it  were,  both  men 
dropped  simultaneously  the  same  significant  syllables:  their 
lips  uttered  together : 

"N.  H."  The  wave  of  sound  seemed  to  take  their  voices 
and  increase  them.  It  was  the  older  man  who  added :  "Com- 
ing into  full  possession." 

The  two  stood  waiting,  listening,  their  heads  turned  side- 
ways, their  bodies  motionless,  while  the  soft  rhythmical  up- 
roar rose  and  fell  about  them.  No  sign  escaped  them  for 
some  minutes ;  no  .words,  it  seemed,  occurred  to  either  of 
them. 

Through  the  transom  over  the  front  door  stole  the  grey 
light  of  the  late  autumn  dawn ;  the  hall  furniture  was  visible, 
chairs,  hat-rack,  wooden  chests  that  held  the  motor  rugs. 
A  china  bowl  filled  with  visiting  cards  gleamed  white  beside 
it.  Soon  the  milkman,  uttering  his  comic  earthly  cry,  would 
clatter  down  the  area  staircase,  and  the  servants  would  be 


252  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

up.  As  yet,  however,  but  for  the  big  soft  sound,  the  house 
was  perfectly  still.  This  part  of  it,  almost  a  separate  wing, 
was  completely  cut  off  from  the  main  building.  No  one 
had  been  disturbed. 

Fillery  moved  his  head  and  looked  at  his  companion. 
The  expression  of  both  face  and  figure  arrested  him.  He 
had  taken  off  his  dinner  jacket,  and  the  old  loose  golfing 
coat  he  wore  hung  askew;  he  had  one  hand  in  a  pocket  of 
it,  the  other  thrust  deep  into  his  trousers.  His  glasses  hung 
down  across  his  crumpled  shirt-front,  his  black  tie  made  an 
untidy  cross.  He  looked,  thought  Fillery,  whose  sense  of 
the  ludicrous  became  always  specially  alert  in  his  gravest 
moments,  like  an  unhappy  curate  who  had  presided  over 
some  strenuous  and  worrying  social  gathering  in  the  local 
town  hall.  Only  one  detail  denied  this  picture — the  expres- 
sion of  something  mysterious  and  awed  in  the  sheet-white 
face.  He  was  listening  with  sharp  dislike  yet  eager  interest. 
His  repugnance  betrayed  itself  in  the  tightened  lips,  the 
set  of  the  angular  shoulders ;  the  panic  was  written  in  the" 
glistening  eyes.  There  were  things  in  his  face  he  could 
never,  never  tell.  The  struggle  in  him  was  natural  to  his 
type  of  mind:  he  had  experienced  something  himself,  and 
a  personal  experience  opens  new  vistas  in  sympathy  and 
understanding.  But — the  experience  ran  contrary  to  every 
tenet  of  theory  and  practice  he  had  ever  known.  The  mo- 
ment of  new  birth  was  painful.  This  was  his  colleague's 
diagnosis. 

Fillery  then  suddenly  realized  that  the  gulf  between  them 
was  without  a  bridge.  To  tell  his  own  experience  became 
at  once  utterly  impossible.  He  saw  this  clearly.  He  could 
not  speak  of  it  to  his  assistant.  It  was,  after  all,  incom- 
municable. The  bridge  of  terms,  language,  feeling,  did  not 
exist  between  them.  And,  again,  up  flashed  for  a  second 
his  sense  of  the  comic,  this  time  in  an  odd  touch  of  memory 
— Povey's  favourite  sentence :  "Never  argue  with  the  once- 
born!"  Only  to  older  souls  was  expression  possible. 

For  the  first  time  then  his  diagnosis  wavered  oddly.  Why, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  253 

for  instance,  did  Paul  persist  in  that  curious,  watchful 
stare  .  .  .  ? 

Devonham,  conscious  of  his  chief's  eyes  and  mind  upon 
him,  looked  up.  Somewhere  in  his  expression  was  a  glare, 
but  nothing  revealed  his  state  of  mind  better  than  the  fact 
that  he  stupidly  contradicted  himself : 

"You're  putting  all  this  into  him,  Edward,"  a  touch 
of  anger,  perhaps  of  fear,  in  the  intense  whispering  voice. 
"The  hysteria  of  the  studio  upset  him,  of  course.  If  you'd 
left  him  alone,  as  you  promised,  he'd  have  always  stayed 
LeVallon.  He'd  be  cured  by  now."  Then,  as  Fillery  made 
no  reply  or  comment,  he  added,  but  this  time  only  the 
anxiety  of  the  doctor  in  his  tone:  "Hadn't  you  better  go 
up  to  him  at  once  ?  He's  your  patient,  not  mine,  remember !" 

The  other  took  his  arm.  "Not  yet,"  he  said  quietly. 
"He's  best  alone  for  the  moment."  He  smiled,  and  it  was 
the  smile  that  invariably  won  him  the  confidence  of  even 
the  most  obstinate  and  difficult  patient.  He  was  completely 
master  of  himself  again.  "Besides,  Paul,"  he  went  on 
gently.  "I  want  to  hear  what  you  have  to  tell  me.  Some 
of  it — if  not  all.  I  want  your  Report.  It  is  of  value.  I 
must  have  that  first,  you  know." 

They  sat  on  the  bottom  stair  together,  while  Devonham 
told  briefly  what  had  happened.  He  was  glad  to  tell  it, 
too.  It  was  a  relief  to  become  the  mere  accurate  observer" 
again. 

"I  can  summarize  it  for  you  in  two  words,"  he  said: 
"light  and  sound.  The  sound,  at  first,  seemed  wind — wind 
rising,  wind  outside.  With  the  light,  was  perceptible  heat. 
The  two  seemed  correlated.  When  the  sound  increased,  the 
heat  increased  too.  Then  the  sound  became  methodical, 
rhythmical — it  became  almost  musical.  As  it  did  so  the 
light  became  coloured.  Both" — he  looked  across  at  the 
ghostly  hat-rack  in  the  hall — "were  produced — by  him." 

"Items,  please,  Paul.    I  want  an  itemized  account." 

Devonham  fumbled  in  the  big  pockets  of  his  coat  and 
eventually  lit  a  cigarette,  though  he  did  not  in  the  least 


254  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

want  to  smoke.  That  watchful,  penetrating  stare  persisted, 
none  the  less.  Amid  the  anxiety  were  items  of  carelessness 
that  almost  seemed  assumed. 

"Mrs.  Soames  sent  Nurse  Robbins  to  fetch  me,"  he  re- 
sumed, his  voice  harshly,  as  it  seemed,  cutting  across  the 
waves  of  pleasant  sound  that  poured  down  the  empty  stairs 
behind  them  and  filled  the  hall  with  resonant  vibrations. 
"I  went  in,  turned  them  both  out,  and  closed  the  door.  The 
room  was  filled  with  a  soft,  white  light,  rather  pale  in  tint, 
that  seemed  to  emanate  from  nowhere.  I  could  trace  it  to 
no  source.  It  was  equally  diffused,  I  mean,  yet  a  kind  of 
wave-like  vibration  ran  through  it  in  faint  curves  and  circles. 
There  was  a  sound,  a  sound  like  wind.  A  wind  was  in 
the  room,  moaning  and  sighing  inside  the  walls — a  perfectly 
natural  and  ordinary  sound,  if  it  had  been  outside.  The 
light  moved  and  quivered.  It  lay  in  sheets.  Its  movement, 
I  noticed,  was  in  direct  relation  to  the  wind :  the  louder  the 
volume  of  sound,  the  greater  the  movement  of  the  air — the 
brighter  became  the  light,  and  vice  versa.  I  could  not  take 
notes  at  the  actual  moment,  but  my  memory" — a  slight 
grimace  by  way  of  a  smile  indicated  that  forgetting  was 
impossible — "is  accurate,  as  you  know." 

Fillery  did  not  interrupt,  either  by  word  or  gesture. 

"The  increase  of  light  was  accompanied  by  colour,  and 
the  increase  of  sound  led  into  a  measure — not  actual  bars, 
and  never  melody,  but  a  distinct  measure  that  involved 
rhythm.  It  was  musical,  as  I  said.  The  colour — I'm  coming 
to  that — then  took  on  a  very  faint  tinge  of  gold  or  orange, 
a  little  red  in  it  sometimes,  flame  colour  almost.  The  ait 
was  luminous — it  was  radiant.  At  one  time  I  half  expected 
to  see  fire.  For  there  was  heat  as  well.  Not  an  unpleasant 
heat,  but  a  comforting,  stimulating,  agreeable  heat  like — I 
was  going  to  say,  like  the  heat  of  a  bright  coal  fire  on  a 
winter's  day,  but  I  think  the  better  term  is  sunlight.  I  had 
an  impression  this  heat  must  burst  presently  into  actual 
flame.  It  never  did  so.  The  sheets  of  coloured  light  rose 
and  fell  with  the  volume  of  the  sound.  There  were  curves 
and  waves  and  rising  columns  like  spirals,  but  anything 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  255 

approaching  a  definite  outline,  form,  or  shape" — he  broke 
off  for  a  second — "figures,"  he  announced  abruptly,  almost 
challengingly,  staring  at  the  white  china  bowl  in  front  of 
him,  "I  could  not  swear  to." 

He  turned  suddenly  and  stared  at  his  chief  with  an  ex- 
pression half  of  question,  half  of  challenge;  then  seemed 
to  change  his  mind,  shrugging  his  shoulders  a  very  little. 
But  Fillery  made  no  sign.  He  did  not  answer.  He  laid 
one  hand,  however,  upon  the  banisters,  as  though  pre- 
liminary to  getting  to  his  feet.  The  sound  about  them  had 
been  gradually  growing  less,  the  vibrations  were  smaller, 
its  waves  perceptibly  decreasing. 

Devonham  finished  his  account  in  a  lower  voice,  speaking 
rapidly,  as  though  the  words  burnt  his  tongue : 

"The  sound,  I  had  already  discovered,  issued  from  him- 
self. He  was  lying  on  his  back,  the  eyes  wide  open,  the 
expression  peaceful,  even  happy.  The  lips  were  closed. 
He  was  humming,  continuously  humming.  Yet  the  sound 
came  in  some  way  I  cannot  describe,  and  could  not  examine 
or  ascertain,  from  his  whole  body,  I  detected  no  vibration 
of  the  body.  It  lay  half  naked,  only  a  corner  of  the  sheet 
upon  it.  It  lay  quite  still.  The  cause  of  the  light  and 
heat,  the  cause  of  the  movement  of  air  I  have  called  wind — 
I  could  not  ascertain.  They  came  through  him,  as  it  were." 
A  slight  shiver  ran  across  his  body,  noticed  by  his  com- 
panion, but  eliciting  no  comment  from  him.  "I — I  took  his 
pulse,"  concluded  Devonham,  sinking  his  voice  now  to  a 
whisper,  though  a  very  clear  one;  "it  was  very  rapid  and 
extraordinarily  strong.  He  seemed  entirely  unconscious  of 
my  presence.  I  also" — again  the  faint  shiver  was  perceptible 
— "felt  his  heart.  It  was — I  have  never  felt  such  perfect 
action,  such  power — it  was  beating  like  an  engine,  like  an 
engine.  And  the  sense  of  vitality,  of  life  in  the  room  every- 
where was — electrical.  I  could  have  sworn  it  was  packed 
to  the  walls  with — with  others."  Devonham  never  ceased 
to  watch  his  companion  keenly  while  he  spoke. 

Fillery  then  put  "his  first  question. 

"And  the  effect  upon  yourself?"  he  asked  quietly.     "I 


25G  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

mean — any  emotional  disturbance?  Anything,  for  instance, 
like  what  you  saw  in  the  Jura  forests?"  He  did  not  look 
at  his  colleague;  he  stood  up;  the  sound  about  them  had 
now  ceased  almost  entirely  and  only  faint,  dying  fragments 
of  it  reached  them.  "Roughly  speaking,"  he  added,  making 
a  half  movement  to  go  upstairs.  He  understood  the  inner 
struggle  going  on ;  he  wished  to  make  it  easy  for  him.  For 
the  complete  account  he  did  not  press  him. 

Devonham  rose  too;  he  walked  over  to  the  china  bowl, 
took  up  a  card,  read  it  and  let  it  fall  again.  The  sun  was 
over  the  horizon  now,  and  a  pallid  light  showed  objects 
clearly.  It  showed  the  whiteness  of  the  thin,  tired  face.  He 
turned  and  walked  slowly  back  across  the  hall.  The  first 
cart  went  clattering  noisily  down  the  street.  At  the  same 
moment  a  final  sound  from  the  room  upstairs  came  floating 
down  into  the  chill  early  air. 

"My  interest,  of  course,"  began  Devonham,  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  his  body  rigid,  as  he  looked  up  into  his 
companion's  eyes,  "was  very  concentrated,  my  mind  in- 
tensely active."  He  paused,  then  added  cautiously:  "I  may 
confess,  however — I  must  admit,  that  is,  a  certain  in- 
crease of — of — well,  a  general  sense  of  well-being,  let  me 
call  it.  The  heat,  you  see.  A  feeling  of  peace,  if  you 
like  it  better — beyond  the — fear,"  he  blurted  out  finally, 
changing  his  hands  from  his  coat  to  his  trouser  pockets, 
as  though  the  new  position  protected  him  better  from  attack. 
"Also — I  somehow  expected — any  moment — to  see  outlines, 
forms,  something  new !"  He  stared  frankly  into  the  eyes 
of  the  man  who,  from  the  step  above  him,  returned  his 
gaze  with  equal  frankness.  "And  you — Edward  ?"  he  asked 
with  great  suddenness. 

"Joy?  Could  you  describe  it  as  joy?"  His  companion 
ignored  the  reference  to  new  forms.  He  also  ignored  the 
sudden  question.  "Any  increase  of ?" 

"Vitality,  you  want  to  say.  The  word  joy  is  meaningless, 
as  you  know." 

"An  intensification  of  consciousness  in  any  way?" 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  257 

But  Devonham  had  reached  his  limit  of  possible  con- 
fession. He  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  He  took  a  step 
forward  and  stood  beside  Fillery  on  the  stairs.  His  man- 
ner had  abruptly  changed.  It  was  as  though  he  had  come 
to  a  conclusion  suddenly.  His  reply,  when  it  came,  was 
no  reply  at  all: 

"Heat  and  light  are  favourable,  of  course,  to  life,"  he 
remarked.  "You  remember  Joaquin  Mueller:  'the  optic 
nerve,  under  the  action  of  light,  acts  as  a  stimulus  to  the 
organs  of  the  imagination  and  fancy.'" 

Fillery  smiled  as  he  took  his  arm  and  they  went  quietly 
upstairs  together.  The  quoting  was  a  sign  of  returning 
confidence.  He  said  something  to  himself  about  the  absence 
of  light,  but  so  low  it  was  under  his  breath  almost,  and 
even  if  his  companion  heard  it,  he  made  no  comment: 
"There  was  no  moon  at  all  to-night  till  well  past  three,  and 
even  then  her  light  was  of  the  faintest.  .  .  ." 

No  sound  was  now  audible.  They  entered  a  room  that 
was  filled  with  silence  and  with  peace.  A  faint  ray  of  morn- 
ing sunlight  showed  the  form  of  the  patient  sleeping  calmly, 
the  body  entirely  uncovered.  There  was  an  expression  of 
quiet  happiness  upon  the  face  whose  perfect  health  sug- 
gested perhaps  radiance.  But  there  was  a  change  as  well, 
though  indescribable — there  was  power.  He  did  not  stir 
as  they  approached  the  bed.  The  breathing  was  regular 
and  very  deep. 

Standing  beside  him  a  moment,  Fillery  sniffed  the  air, 
then  smiled.  There  was  a  perfume  of  wild  flowers.  There 
was,  in  spite  of  the  cool  morning  air,  a  pleasant  warmth. 

"You  notice — anything?"  he  whispered,  turning  to  his 
colleague. 

Devonham  likewise  sniffed  the  air.  "The  window's  wide 
open,"  was  the  low  rejoinder.  "There  are  conservatories 
at  the  back  of  every  house  all  down  the  row." 

And  they  left  the  room  on  tiptoe,  closing  the  door  behind 
them  very  softly.  Upon  Devonham's  face  lay  a  curious 
expression,  half  anxiety,  half  pain. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

DR.  FILLER Y,  lying  on  a  couch  in  his  patient's  bed- 
room, snatched  some  four  to  five  hours'  sleep,  though, 
if  "snatched,"  it  was  certainly  enjoyed — a  deep,  dream- 
less, reposeful  slumber.  He  woke,  refreshed  in  mind  and 
body,  and  the  first  thing  he  saw,  even  before  he  had  time 
to  stretch  a  limb  or  move  his  head,  was  two  great  blue  eyes 
gazing  into  his  own  across  the  room.  They  belonged,  it 
first  struck  him,  to  some  strange  being  that  had  followed 
him  out  of  sleep — he  had  not  yet  recovered  full  conscious- 
ness and  the  effects  of  sleep  still  hovered;  then  an  earlier 
phrase  recurred :  to  some  divine  great  animal. 

"N.  H.,"  in  his  bed  in  the  opposite  corner,  lay  gazing 
at  him.  He  returned  the  gaze.  Into  the  blue  eyes  came 
at  once  a  look  of  happy  recognition,  of  contentment,  almost 
a  smile.  Then  they  closed  again  in  sleep. 

The  room  was  full  of  morning  sunshine.  Fillery  rose 
quietly,  and  performed  his  toilet  in  his  own  quarters,  but 
on  returning  after  a  hurried  breakfast,  the  patient  still  slept 
soundly.  He  slept  on  for  hours,  he  slept  the  morning 
through;  but  for  the  obvious  evidences  of  perfect  normal 
health,  it  might  have  been  a  state  of  coma.  The  body  did 
not  even  change  its  position  once. 

He  left  Devonham  in  charge,  and  was  on  his  way  to 
visit  some  of  the  other  cases,  when  Nurse  Robbins  stood 
before  him.  Miss  Khilkoff  had  "called  to  inquire  after  Mr. 
LeVallon,"  and  was  waiting  downstairs  in  case  Dr.  Fillery 
could  also  see  her. 

He  glanced  at  her  pretty  slim  figure  and  delicate  com- 
plexion, her  hair,  fine,  plentiful  and  shiny,  her  dark  eyes 
with  a  twinkle  in  them.  She  was  an  attractive,  intelligent, 

258 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  259 

experienced,  young  woman,  tactful  too,  and  of  great  use 
with  extra  sensitive  patients.  She  was,  of  course,  already 
hopelessly  in  love  with  her  present  "case."  His  "singing," 
so  she  called  it  to  Mrs.  Soames,  had  excited  her  "like  a 
glass  of  wine — some  music  makes  you  feel  like  that — so  that 
you  could  love  everybody  in  the  world."  She  already  called 
him  Master. 

"Please  say  I  will  be  down  at  once,"  said  Dr.  Fillery, 
watching  her  for  the  first  time  with  interest  as  he  remem- 
bered these  details  Paul  had  told  him.  The  girl,  it  now 
struck  him,  was  intensely  alive.  There  was  a  gain,  an  in- 
crease, in  her  appearance  somewhere.  He  recalled  also 
the  matron's  remark — she  was  not  usually  loquacious  with 
her  nurses — that  "he's  no  ordinary  case,  and  I've  seen  a 
good  few,  haven't  I  ?  The  way  he  understands  animals  and 
flowers  alone  proves  that!" 

Dr.  Fillery  went  downstairs. 

His  first  rapid  survey  of  the  girl,  exhaustive  for  all  its 
quickness — he  knew  her  so  well — showed  him  that  no  out- 
ward signs  of  excitement  were  visible.  Calm,  poised,  gentle 
as  ever,  the  same  generous  tenderness  in  the  eyes,  the  same 
sweet  firmness  in  the  mouth,  the  familiar  steadiness  that 
was  the  result  of  an  inner  surety — all  were  there  as  though 
the  wild  scene  of  the  night  before  had  never  been.  Yet 
all  those  were  heightened.  Her  beauty  had  curiously  in- 
creased. 

"Come  into  my  study,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand  and 
leading  the  way.  "We  shan't  be  disturbed  there.  Besides, 
it's  ours,  isn't  it  ?  We  mustn't  forget  that  you  are  a  member 
of  the  Firm." 

He  was  aware  of  her  soft  beauty  invading,  penetrating 
him,  aware,  too,  somehow,  that  she  was  in  her  most  imper- 
sonal mood.  But  for  all  that,  her  nature  could  not  hide 
itself,  nor  could  signs  of  a  certain,  subtle  change  she  had 
undergone  fail  to  obtrude  themselves.  In  a  single  night, 
it  seemed,  she  had  blossomed  into  a  wondrous  ripe  maturity ; 
like  some  strange  flower  that  opens  to  the  darkness,  the 


260  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

bud  had  burst  suddenly  into  full,  sweet  bloom,  whose  com- 
ing only  moon  and  stars  had  witnessed.  There  was  moon- 
light now  in  her  dark  mysterious  eyes  as  she  glanced  at 
him ;  there  was  the  gold  of  stars  in  her  tender,  yet  curious 
smile,  as  she  answered  in  her  low  voice — "Of  course,  I 
always  was  a  partner  in  the  Firm" — there  was  the  grace 
and  rhythm  of  a  wild  flower  swaying  in  the  wind,  as  she 
passed  before  him  into  the  quiet  room  and  sank  into  his 
own  swinging  armchair  at  the  desk.  But  there  was  some- 
thing else  as  well. 

A  detail  of  his  recent  Vision  slid  past  his  inner  sight 
again  while  he  watched  her.  ...  "I  thought — I  felt  sure 
— you  would  come,"  he  said.  He  looked  at  her  admiringly, 
but  peace  strong  in  his  heart.  "The  ordeal,"  he  went  on 
in  a  curious  voice,  "would  have  been  too  much  for  most 
women,  but  you" — he  smiled,  and  the  sympathy  in  his  voice 
increased — "you,  I  see,  have  only  gained  from  it.  You've 
mastered,  conquered  it.  I  wonder" — looking  away  from 
her  almost  as  if  speaking  to  himself — "have  you  wholly 
understood  it  ?" 

He  realized  vividly  in  that  moment  what  she,  as  a  young, 
unmarried  girl,  had  suffered  before  the  eyes  of  all  those 
prying  eyes  and  gossiping  tongues.  His  admiration 
deepened. 

She  did  not  take  up  his  words,  however.  "I've  come  to 
inquire,"  she  said  simply  in  an  even  voice,  "for  father  and 
myself.  He  wanted  to  know  if  you  got  home  all  right, 
and  how  Julian  LeVallon  is."  The  tone,  the  heightened 
colour  in  the  cheek,  as  she  spoke  the  name  no  one  had  yet 
used,  explained,  partly  at  least,  to  the  experienced  man  who 
listened,  the  secret  of  her  sudden  blossoming.  Also  she 
used  her  father,  though  unconsciously,  perhaps.  "He  was 
afraid  the  electricity — the  lightning  even — had" — she  hesi- 
tated, smiled  a  little,  then  added,  as  though  she  herself 
knew  otherwise — "done  something  to  him." 

Fillery  laughed  with  her  then.  "As  it  has  done  to  you," 
he  thought,  but  did  not  speak  the  words.  The  need  of 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  261 

formula  was  past.  He  thanked  her,  adding  that  it  was 
sweet  yet  right  that  she  had  come  herself,  instead  of  writ- 
ing or  telephoning.  "And  you  may  set  your — your  father's 
mind  at  rest,  for  all  goes  well.  The  electricity,  of  course," 
he  added,  on  his  own  behalf  as  well  as  hers,  "was — more 
than  most  of  us  could  manage.  Electricity  explains  every- 
thing except  itself,  doesn't  it?" 

He  was  inwardly  examining  her  with  an  intense  and 
accurate  observation.  She  seemed  the  same,  yet  different. 
The  sudden  flowering  into  beauty  was  simply  enough  ex- 
plained. It  was  another  change  he  now  became  more  and 
more  aware  of.  In  this  way  a  ship,  grown  familiar  during 
the  long  voyage,  changes  on  coming  into  port.  The  decks 
and  staircases  look  different  when  the  vessel  lies  motionless 
at  the  dock.  It  becomes  half  recognizable,  half  strange. 
Gone  is  the  old  familiarity,  gone  also  one's  own  former 
angle  of  vision.  It  is  difficult  to  find  one's  way  about  her. 
Soon  she  will  set  sail  again,  but  in  another  direction,  and 
with  new  passengers  using  her  decks,  her  corners,  hatch- 
ways .  .  .  telling  their  secrets  of  love  and  hate  with  that 
recklessness  the  open  sea  and  sky  make  easy.  .  .  .  And 
now  with  the  girl  before  him — he  couldn't  quite  find  his 
way  about  her  as  of  old  ...  it  was  the  same  familiar  ship, 
yet  it  was  otherwise,  and  he,  a  new  passenger,  acknowledged 
the  freedom  of  sea  and  sky. 

"And  you — Iraida?"  he  asked.  "It  was  brave  of  you  to 
come." 

She  liked  evidently  the  use  of  her  real  name,  for  she 
smiled,  aware  all  the  time  of  his  intent  observation,  aware 
probably  also  of  his  hidden  pain,  yet  no  sign  of  awkward- 
ness in  her;  to  this  man  she  could  talk  openly,  or,  on  the 
contrary,  conceal  her  thoughts,  sure  of  his  tact  and  judg- 
ment. He  would  never  intrude  unwisely. 

"It  was  natural,  Edward,"  she  observed  frankly  in  return. 

"Yes,  I  suppose  it  was.  Natural  is  exactly  the  right 
word.  You  have  perhaps  found  yourself  at  last,"  and  again 
he  used  her  real  name,  "Iraida." 


262  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"It  feels  like  that,"  she  replied  slowly.  She  paused.  "I 
have  found,  at  least,  something  definite  that  I  have  to  do. 
I  feel  that  I — must  care  for  him."  Her  eyes,  as  she  said 
it,  were  untroubled. 

The  well-known  Nayan  flashed  back  a  moment  in  the 
words;  he  recognized — to  use  his  simile — a  familiar  corner 
of  the  deck  where  he  had  sat  and  talked  for  hours  beneath 
the  quiet  stars — to  someone  who  understood,  yet  remained 
ever  impersonal.  And  the  person  he  talked  with  came  over 
suddenly  and  stood  beside  him  and  took  his  hand  between 
her  own  soft  gloved  ones : 

"You  told  me,  Edward,  he  would  need  a  woman  to  help 
him.  That's  what  you  mean  by  'natural' — isn't  it?  And 
I  am  she,  perhaps." 

"I  think  you  are,"  came  in  a  level  tone. 

"I  know  it,"  she  said  suddenly,  both  her  eyes  looking 
down  upon  his  face.  "Yes,  I  suppose  I  know  it." 

"Because  you — need  him,"  his  voice,  equally  secure,  made 
answer. 

Still  keeping  his  hand  tight  between  her  own,  her  dark 
eyes  still  searching  his,  she  made  no  sign  that  his  blunt 
statement  was  accepted,  much  less  admitted.  Instead  she 
asked  a  question  he  was  not  prepared  for:  "You  would 
like  that,  Edward?  You  wish  it?" 

She  was  so  close  against  his  chair  that  her  fur-trimmed 
coat  brushed  his  shoulder ;  yet,  though  with  eyes  and  touch 
and  physical  presence  she  was  so  near,  he  felt  that  she 
herself  had  gone  far,  far  away  into  some  other  place.  He 
drew  his  hand  free.  "Iraida,"  he  said  quietly,  "I  wish  the 
best — for  him — and  for  you.  And  I  believe  this  is  the  best 
— for  him  and  you."  He  put  his  patient  first.  He  was 
aware  that  the  girl,  for  all  her  outer  calmness,  trembled. 

"It  is,"  she  said,  her  voice  as  quiet  as  his  own;  and  after 
a  moment's  hesitation,  she  went  back  to  her  seat  again. 
"If  you  think  I  can  be  of  use,"  she  added.  "I'm  ready." 

A  little  pause  fell  between  them,  during  which  Dr.  Fillery 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  263 

touched  an  electric  bell  beside  his  chair.  Nurse  Robbins 
appeared  with  what  seemed  miraculous  swiftness.  "Stifl 
sleeping  quietly,  sir,  and  pulse  normal  again,"  she  replied 
in  answer  to  a  question,  then  vanished  as  suddenly  as  she 
had  come.  He  looked  into  the  girl's  eyes  across  the  room. 
"A  competent,  reliable  nurse,"  he  remarked,  "and,  as  you 
saw,  a  pretty  woman."  He  glanced  out  of  the  window. 
"She  is  unmarried."  He  mentioned  it  apparently  to  the 
sky. 

The  quick  mind  took  in  his  meaning  instantly.  "All 
women  will  be  drawn  to  him  irresistibly,  of  course,"  she 
said.  "But  it  is  not  that." 

"No,  no,  of  course  it  is  not  that,"  he  agreed  at  once.  "I 
should  like  you  to  see  him,  though  not,  however,  just 

yet "  He  went  on  after  a  moment's  reflection,  and 

speaking  slowly:  "I  should  like  you  to  wait  a  little.  It's 
best.  There  has  been  a — a  certain  disturbance  in  his 
being " 

"It's  his  first  experience,"  she  began,  "of  beauty " 

"Of  beauty  in  women,  yes,"  he  finished  for  her.  "It  is. 
We  must  avoid  anything  in  the  nature  of  a  violent 
shock " 

"He  has  asked  for  me?"  she  interrupted  again,  in  her 
quiet  way. 

He  shook  his  head.  "And  we  cannot  be  sure  that  it  was 
you — as  you — he  sought  and  is  affected  by.  The  call  he 
hears  is,  perhaps,  hardly  the  call  that  sounds  in  most  men's 
ears,  I  mean." 

The  hint  of  warning  guidance  was  audible  in  his  voice, 
as  well  as  visible  in  his  eyes  and  manner.  The  laughter 
they  both  betrayed,  a  grave  and  curious  laughter  perhaps, 
was  brief,  yet  enough  to  conceal  stranger  emotions  that 
rose  like  dumb,  gazing  figures  almost  before  their  eyes. 
Yet  if  she  knew  inner  turmoil,  emotion  of  any  troubling 
sort,  she  concealed  it  perfectly. 

"I  am  glad,"  the  girl  said  presently.    "Oh,  I  am  really 


264  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

glad.  I  think  I  understand,  Edward."  And,  even  while 
he  sat  silent  for  a  bit,  watching  her  with  an  ever-growing 
admiration  that  at  the  same  time  marvelled,  he  saw  the 
wonder  of  great  questions  riding  through  her  face.  The 
recollection  of  what  she  had  suffered  publicly  in  the  Studio 
a  few  hours  before  came  into  his  mind  again.  In  these 
questions,  perhaps,  lay  the  only  signs  of  the  hidden  storm 
below  the  surface. 

"Are  there — are  there  such  things  as  Nature-Beings, 
Edward?"  she  asked  abruptly.  "We  know  this  is  his  first 
experience.  Are  there  then ?" 

He  was  prepared  a  little  for  this  kind  of  question  by 
her  eyes.  "We  have  no  evidence,  of  course,"  he  replied; 
"not  a  scrap  of  evidence  for  anything  of  the  sort.  There 
are  people,  however,  so  close  to  Nature,  so  intimate  with 
her,  that  we  may  say  they  are — strangely,  inexplicably 
akin." 

"Has  he  a  soul — a  human  soul  like  ours?"  she  asked 
point  blank. 

"He  is  perhaps — not — quite — like  us.  That  may  be  your 
task,  Iraida,"  he  added  enigmatically.  He  watched  her 
more  closely  than  she  knew. 

She  appeared  to  ponder  his  words  for  a  few  minutes; 
then  she  asked  abruptly :  "And  when  do  you  think  I  ought 
to  come  and  see  him  ?  You  will  let  me  know  ?" 

"I  will  let  you  know.  A  few  days  perhaps,  perhaps  a 
week,  perhaps  longer.  Some  education,  I  think,  is  neces- 
sary first."  He  gazed  at  her  thoughtfully,  and  she  returned 
his  look,  her  dark  eyes  filled  with  the  wonder  that  was 
both  of  a  child  and  of  a  woman,  and  yet  with  a  security 
of  something  that  was  of  neither.  "It  will  be  a — a  great 
effort  to  you,"  he  ventured  with  significant  and  sympathetic 
understanding,  "after — what  happened.  It  is  brave  and 
generous  of  you "  He  broke  off. 

She  nodded,  but  at  once  afterwards  shook  her  head.  She 
rose  then  to  go,  but  Dr.  Fillery  stopped  her.  He  rose 
too. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  265 

"Nayan,  I  now  want  your  help,"  he  said  with  more 
emotion  than  he  had  yet  shown.  "My  responsibility,  as 
you  may  guess,  is  not  light — and " 

"And  he  is  in  your  sole  charge,  you  mean."  She  had 
willingly  resumed  her  seat,  and  made  herself  comfortable 
with  a  cushion  he  arranged  for  her.  He  was  aware  chiefly 
of  her  eyes,  for  in  them  glowed  light  and  fire  he  had  never 
seen  there  before — but  still  in  their  depths. 

"Well — yes,  partly,"  he  replied,  lighting  a  cigarette, 
"though  Paul  is  ready  with  help  and  sympathy  whenever 
needed.  But  the  charge,  as  you  call  it,  is  not  mine  alone: 
it  is  ours." 

"Ours!"  She  started,  though  almost  imperceptibly,  as 
she  repeated  his  word. 

"Subconsciously,"  he  said  in  a  firm  voice,  "we  three 
are  similar.  We  are  together.  We  obey  half  instinctively 
the  unknown  laws  of" — he  hesitated  a  moment — "of  some 
unknown  state  of  being."  He  added  then  a  singular  sen- 
tence, though  so  low  it  seemed  almost  to  himself :  "Had 
we  been  man  and  wife,  Iraida,  our  child  must  have  been 
—like  him." 

"Yes,"  she  said,  leaning  forward  a  little  in  her  chair, 
increased  warmth,  yet  no  blush,  upon  her  skin.  "Yes, 
Edward,  we  three  are  somehow  together  in  this,  aren't 
we?  Oh,  I  feel  it.  It  pours  over  me  like  a  great  wind, 
a  wind  with  heat  in  it."  Her  hands  clasped  her  knee,  as 
they  gazed  at  one  another  for  a  moment's  silence.  "I  feel 
it,"  she  repeated  presently.  "I'm  sure  of  it,  quite  sure." 

She  stretched  out  a  spirit  hand,  as  it  were,  for  an  instant 
across  the  impersonal  barrier  between  them,  but  he  did 
not  take  it,  pretending  he  did  not  see  it. 

"Ours,  Nayan,"  he  emphasized,  again  using  the  name 
that  belonged  to  everyone.  "Therefore,  you  see,  I  want 
you  to  tell  me — if  you  will — what  you  felt,  experienced, 
perceived — in  the  Studio  last  night."  After  watching  her 
a  little,  he  qualified:  "Another  day,  if  you  would  like  to 
think  it  over.  But  some  time,  without  fail.  For  my  part, 


266  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

I  will  confess — though  I  think  you  already  know  it — that 
I  brought  him  there  on  purpose " 

"To  see  ray  effect  upon  him,  Edward." 

"But  in  his  interest,  and  in  the  interest  of  my  possible 
future  treatment.  His  effect  upon  yourself  was  not  my 
motive.  You  believe  that." 

"I  know,  I  know.  And  I  will  tell  you  gladly.  Indeed, 
I  want  to." 

He  was  aware,  as  she  said  it,  that  it  would  be  a  satis- 
faction to  her  to  talk;  she  would  welcome  the  relief  of 
confession;  she  could  speak  to  him  as  doctor  now,  as  pro- 
fessional man,  as  healer,  and  this,  too,  without  betraying 
the  impersonal  attitude  she  evidently  wore  and  had  adopted 
possibly — he  wondered? — in  self-protection.  "Tell  me 
exactly  what  it  is  you  would  like  to  know,  please,  Edward," 
she  added,  and  instinctively  moved  to  the  sofa,  so  that  he 
might  occupy  the  professional  swinging  chair  at  the  desk. 

"What  you  saw,  Nayan,"  he  began,  accepting  the  change 
of  position  without  comment,  because  he  knew  it  helped 
her.  "What  you  saw  is  of  value,  I  think,  first." 

He  had  all  his  usual  self-control  again,  for  he  was  now 
on  his  throne,  his  seat  of  power ;  his  inner  attitude  changed 
subtly;  he  was  examining  two  patients — the  girl  and  him- 
self. She  sat  before  him  demure,  obedient,  honest,  very 
sweet  but  very  strong;  if  her  perfume  reached  him  he  did 
not  notice  it,  the  appeal  of  her  loveliness  went  past  him, 
he  did  not  see  her  eyes.  He  had  a  very  comely  and  intel- 
ligent young  woman  facing  him,  and  the  glow,  as  it  were, 
of  an  intense  inner  activity,  strongly  suppressed,  was  the 
chief  quality  in  her  that  he  noted.  But  his  new  attitude 
made  other  things,  too,  stand  out  sharply :  he  realized  there 
was  confusion  in  her  own  mind  and  heart.  Her  being  was 
not  wholly  at  one  with  itself.  This  impersonal  role  meant 
safety  until  she  was  sure  of  herself;  and  so  far  she  had 
been  entirely  and  admirably  non-committal.  No  girl,  he 
remembered,  could  look  back  upon  what  she  had  experienced 


THF/ BRIGHT  MESSENGER  267 

in  the  Studio,  upon  what  she  had  herself  said  and  done, 
before  a  crowd  of  onlookers  too,  without  deep  feelings  of 
a  mixed  and  even  violent  kind.  That  scene  with  a  young 
man  she  had  never  seen  before  must  bring  painful 
memories ;  if  it  was  love  at  first  sight  the  memories  must 
be  more  painful  still.  But  was  it  a  case  of  this  sudden, 
rapturous  love?  What,  indeed,  were  her  feelings?  What 
at  any  rate  was  her  dominant  feeling?  She  had  felt  his 
appeal  beyond  all  question,  but  was  it  as  Nayan  or  as 
Iraida  that  she  felt  it? 

She  was  non-committal  and  impersonal,  conscious  that 
therein  safety  lay — until,  having  become  one  with  herself, 
harmonious,  she  could  feel  absolutely  sure.  One  hint  only 
had  she  dropped — it  was  Nayan  speaking — that  her  mother- 
ing, maternal  instinct  was  needed  and  that  she  must  obey 
its  prompting.  She  must  "care"  for  him.  .  .  . 

Dr.  Fillery,  meanwhile,  though  he  might  easily  have 
probed  and  made  discoveries  without  her  knowing  that 
he  did  so,  was  not  the  man  to  use  his  powers  now.  Unless 
she  gave  of  her  own  free  will,  he  would  not  ask.  He  would 
close  eyes  and  ears  even  to  any  chance  betrayal  or  uncon- 
scious revelation. 

"When  you  first  looked  in,  for  instance?  You  had  just 
come  in  from  the  street,  I  think.  You  opened  the  door 
on  your  way  upstairs.  Do  you  remember?" 

She  remembered  perfectly.  "I  wanted  to  see  who  was 
there.  You,  I  think,  were  chiefly  in  my  thoughts — I  was 
wondering  if  you  had  come."  Her  voice  was  even,  her 
eyes  quite  steady;  she  chose  her  next  words  slowly:  "I 
saw — to  my  intense  surprise — a  figure  of  light." 

"Shining,  you  mean?    A  shining  figure?" 

She  nodded  her  head,  as  one  little  hand  put  back  a  stray- 
ing wisp  of  dark  hair  from  her  forehead.  "A  figure  like 
flame,"  she  agreed.  "I  saw  it  quite  clearly.  I  saw  every- 
thing else  quite  clearly  too — the  inner  room,  various  people 
standing  about,  the  piano,  the  thick  smoke,  everything  as 


268  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

usual.  I  saw  you.  You  were  in  the  big  outer  room  beyond, 
but  your  face  was  very  distinct.  You  were  staring — staring 
straight  at  me." 

"True,"  put  in  Dr.  Fillery;  "I  saw  you  in  the  doorway 
plainly." 

"In  the  foreground,  by  itself  apart  somehow,  though 
surrounded  by  people,  was  this  shining,  radiant  outline.  I 
thought  it  was  a  Vision — the  first  thing  of  that  sort  I  had 
ever  seen  in  my  life." 

"That  was  your  very  first  impression— even  before  you 
had  time  to  think?" 

"Yes." 

"It  struck  you  as  unusual?" 

"I  cannot  say  more  than  that.  I  knew  by  the  light  it 
was  unusual.  Then  it  moved — talking  to  Povey  or  Kemp- 
ster  or  someone — and  I  realized  in  a  flash  who  it  was.  I 
knew  it  must  be  your  friend,  the  man  you  had  promised 
to  bring — Ju " 

"And  then ?"  he  asked  quickly,  before  she  could  pro- 
nounce the  name. 

"And  then " 

She  stopped,  and  her  eyes  looked  away  from  him,  not 
in  the  sense  that  they  moved  but  that  their  focus  changed 
as  though  she  looked  at  something  else,  at  something  within 
herself,  no  longer,  therefore,  at  the  face  in  front  of  her. 
He  waited;  he  understood  that  she  was  searching  among 
deep,  strange,  seething  memories;  he  let  her  search;  and, 
watching  closely,  he  presently  saw  the  sight  return  into 
her  eyes  from  its  inward  plunge. 

"And  when  you  knew  who  it  was,"  he  asked  very  quietly, 
"were  you  still  surprised?  Did  he  look  as  you  expected 
him  to  look,  for  instance  ?" 

"I  had  expected  nothing,  you  see,  Edward,  because  I 
had  not  been  consciously  thinking  about  his  coming.  No 
mental  picture  was  present  in  me  at  all.  But  the  moment 
I  realized  who  it  was,  the  light  seemed  to  go — I  just  saw 
a  young  man  standing  there,  with  his  head  turned  sideways 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  269 

to  me.  The  light,  I  suppose,  lasted  for  a  second  only — 
that  first  second.  As  to  how  he  looked?  Well,  he  looked, 
not  only  bigger — he  is  bigger  than  most  men,"  she  went 
on,  "but  he  looked" — her  voice  hushed  instinctively  a  little 
on  the  adjective — "different." 

Her  companion  made  a  gesture  of  agreement,  waiting  in 
silence  for  what  was  to  follow. 

"He  looked  so  extraordinary,  so  wonderful,"  she  resumed, 
gazing  steadily  into  his  eyes,  "that  I — I  can  hardly  put  it 
into  words,  Edward,  unless  I  use  childish  language."  She 
broke  off  and  sighed,  and  something,  he  fancied,  in  her 
wavered  for  a  second,  though  it  was  certainly  neither  the 
voice  nor  the  eyes.  A  faint  trembling  again  perhaps  ran 
through  her  body.  Her  account  was  so  deliberately  truth- 
ful that  it  impressed  him  more  than  he  quite  understood. 
He  was  aware  of  pathos  in  her,  of  some  vague  trouble 
very  poignant  yet  inexplicable.  A  breath  of  awe,  it  seemed, 
entered  the  room  and  moved  between  them. 

"The  childish  words  are  probably  the  best,  the  right  ones," 
he  told  her  gently. 

"An  angel,"  she  said  instantly  in  a  hushed  tone,  "I  thought 
of  an  angel.  There  is  no  other  word  I  can  find.  But  some- 
how a  helpless  one.  An  angel — out  of  place." 

He  looked  hard  at  her,  his  manner  encouraging  though 
grave ;  he  said  no  word ;  he  did  not  smile. 

"Someone  not  of  this  earth  quite,"  she  added.  "Not  a 
man,  at  any  rate." 

Still  more  gently,  he  then  asked  her  what  she  felt. 

"At  first  I  couldn't  move,"  she  went  on,  her  voice  normal 
again.  "I  must  have  stood  there  ten  minutes  fully,  per- 
haps longer" — her  listener  did  not  correct  the  statement — 
"when  I  suddenly  recovered  and  looked  about  for  you, 
Edward,  but  could  not  see  you.  I  needed  you,  but  could 
not  find  you.  I  remember  feeling  somehow  that  I  had  lost 
you.  I  tried  to  call  for  you — in  my  heart.  There  was  no 
answer.  .  .  .  Then — then  I  closed  the  door  quietly  and  went 
upstairs  to  change  from  my  street  clothes." 


270  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

She  paused  and  passed  a  hand  slowly  across  her  fore- 
head. Dr.  Fillery  asked  casually  a  curious  question: 

"Do  you  remember  how  you  got  upstairs,  Nayan?" 

Her  hand  dropped  instantly ;  she  started.  "It's  very  odd 
x  you  should  ask  me  that,  Edward,"  she  said,  gazing  at  him 
with  a  slightly  rising  colour  in  her  face,  an  increase  of  fire 
glowing  in  her  eyes;  "very  odd  indeed.  I  was  just  trying 
to  think  how  I  could  describe  it  to  you.  No.  Actually  I 
do  not  remember  how  I  got  upstairs.  All  I  know  is — I 
was  suddenly  in  my  room."  A  new  intensity  appeared  in 
voice  and  manner.  "It  seemed  to  me  I  flew — or  that — 
something — carried  me." 

"Yes,  Nayan,  yes.  It's  quite  natural  you  should  have 
felt  like  that." 

"Is  it?  I  remember  so  little  of  what  I  actually  felt.  I 
wonder — I  wonder,"  she  went  on  softly,  with  an  air  almost 
of  talking  to  herself,  "if  it  will  ever  come  back  again — what 
I  felt  then " 

"Such  moments  of  subliminal  excitement,"  Dr.  Fillery 
reminded  her  gently,  "have  the  effect  of  obliterating  memory 
sometimes " 

"Excitement,"  she  caught  him  up.  "Yes,  I  suppose  it 
was  excitement.  But  it  was  more,  much  more,  than  that. 
Stimulated — I  think  that's  the  word  really.  I  felt  caught 
away  somewhere,  caught  away,  caught  up — as  if  into  the 
rest  of  myself — into  the  whole  of  myself.  I  became  vast" 
— she  smiled  curiously — "if  you  know  what  I  mean — in 
several  places  at  once,  perhaps,  is  better.  It  was  an  immense 
feeling — no,  I  mean  a  feeling  of  immensity " 

"Happy?"    His  voice  was  low. 

Her  eyes  answered  even  before  her  words,  as  the  memory 
came  back  a  little  in  response  to  his  cautious  suggestion. 

"A  new  feeling  altogether,"  she  replied,  returning  his 
clear  gaze  with  her  frank,  innocent  eyes  that  had  grown 
still  more  brilliant.  "A  feeling  I  have  never  known  be- 
fore." She  talked  more  rapidly  now,  leaning  forward  a 
little  in  her  chair.  "I  felt  in  the  open  air  somehow,  with 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  271 

flowers,  trees,  hot  burning  sunshine  and  sweet  winds  rush- 
ing to  and  fro.  It  was  something  bigger  than  happiness 
— a  sort  of  intoxicating  joy,  I  think.  It  was  liberty,  but 
of  an  enormous  spiritual  kind.  I  wanted  to  dance — I  be- 
lieve I  did  dance — yes,  I'm  sure  I  did,  and  with  hardly 
anything  on 'my  body.  I  wanted  to  sing — I  sang  down- 
stairs, of  course " 

"I  heard,"  he  put  in  briefly.  He  did  not  add  that  she 
had  never  sung  like  that  before. 

"The  moment  I  came  into  the  room,  yes,  I  remember 
I  went  straight  to  the  piano  without  a  word  to  anyone." 
She  reflected  a  moment.  "I  suppose  I  had  to.  There  was 
something  new  in  me  I  could  only  express  by  music — 
rhythm,  that  is,  not  language." 

"It  was  natural,"  Dr.  Fillery  said  again.  "Quite  natural, 
I  think." 

"Yes,  Edward,  I  suppose  it  was,"  she  answered,  then  sank 
back  in  her  chair,  as  though  she  had  told  him  all  there  was 
to  tell. 

Dr.  Fillery  smoked  in  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  then 
rose  and  touched  the  bell  as  before,  and,  as  before,  Nurse 
Robbins  appeared  with  the  same  miraculous  speed.  There 
was  a  brief  colloquy  at  the  door;  the  woman  was  gone 
again,  and  the  doctor  turned  back  into  the  room  with  a 
look  of  satisfaction  on  his  face.  All,  apparently,  was  going 
well  upstairs.  He  did  not  sit  down,  however;  he  stood 
looking  out  of  the  window  at  the  drab  wintry  sky  of  motion- 
less clouds,  his  back  to  his  companion.  It  was  midday,  but 
the  light,  while  making  all  things  visible,  was  not  light; 
there  was  no  shine,  no  touch  of  radiance,  no  hint  of  sparkle 
beneath  the  canopy  of  sullen  cloud.  The  English  winter's 
day  was  visible,  no  more  than  that.  Yet  it  was  not  the 
English  day,  nor  the  clouds,  nor  the  bleak  dead  atmosphere 
he  looked  at.  In  a  single  second  his  sight  travelled  far, 
far  away,  covering  an  enormous  interval  in  space  and  time, 
in  condition  too.  He  saw  a  radiant  world  of  sun-drenched 
•flowers  "tossing  with  random  airs  of  an  unearthly  wind"; 


272  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

he  saw  a  foam  of  forest  leaves  shaking  and  dancing  against 
a  deep  blue  sky ;  he  say  a  valley  whose  streams  and  emerald 
turf  knew  not  the  touch  of  human  feet.  .  .  .  The  familiar 
symbols  he  saw,  but  inflamed  with  new  meaning. 

"Thank  you,  Edward,  thank  you" — she  was  just  behind 
him,  her  hands  upon  his  shoulders.  "You  understand 
everything  in  the  world!"  she  added,  "and  out  of  it,"  but 
too  low  for  him  to  hear. 

He  came  back  with  an  effort,  turning  towards  her.  They 
were  standing  level  now  and  very  close,  eyes  looking  into 
eyes.  He  felt  her  breath  upon  his  face,  her  perfume  rose 
about  him,  her  lips  were  moving  just  in  front  of  him — 
yet,  for  a  second,  he  did  not  know  who  she  was.  It  was 
as  though  she  had  not  come  with  him  out  of  that  valley, 
not  come  back  with  him.  .  .  .  An  insatiable  longing  seized 
him — to  return  and  find  her,  stay  with  her.  The  ache  of 
an  intolerable  yearning  was  in  his  heart,  yet  a  sudden  flash 
of  understanding  that  brought  a  bigger,  almost  an  unearthly 
joy  in  its  train.  At  the  call  of  some  service,  some  duty, 
some  help  to  be  rendered  to  humanity,  the  three  of  them 
together — he,  "N.  H.,"  the  girl — were  in  temporary  exile 
from  their  rightful  home.  The  scent  of  wild  flowers  rose 
about  him.  He  suddenly  remembered,  recognized,  and  gave 
a  little  start.  He  had  left  her  behind  in  the  valley — Iraida ; 
it  was  Nayan  who  now  stood  before  him. 

He  uttered  a  dry  little  laugh.  "You  startled  me,  Nayan. 
I  was  thinking.  I  didn't  hear  you."  She  had  just  thanked 
him  for  something — oh,  yes — because  he  had  left  her  alone 
for  a  moment,  giving  her  time  to  collect  herself  after  the 
long  cross-examination. 

He  took  both  her  hands  in  his. 

"Our  patient  then — isn't  it?"  he  asked  in  a  firm  voice, 
looking  deep  into  her  luminous  eyes.  He  saw  no  fire  in 
them  now. 

"I'll  do  all  I  can,  Edward." 

She  returned  the  pressure  of  his  hands.  His  keen  in- 
sight, operating  in  spite  of  himself,  had  read  her  clearly. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  273 

It  was  mother,  child  and  woman  he  had  always  known. 
The  three,  however,  were  already  in  process  of  disentangle- 
ment. For  the  first  time  during  their  long  acquaintance, 
what  now  stood  so  close  before  him  was — the  woman.  Yet 
behind  the  woman  like  an  enveloping  shadow  stood  the 
mother  too.  And  behind  both,  again,  stood  another  wild, 
gigantic,  lovely  possibility.  Was  it,  then,  the  child  that  he 
had  left  playing  in  the  radiant  valley?  .  .  .  The  child,  he 
knew,  was  his  always,  always,  even  if  the  woman  was  an- 
other's. .  .  .  He  laughed  softly.  These,  after  all,  were  but 
transitory  states  in  human,  earthly  evolution,  concerned  with 
play,  with  a  production  of  bodies  and  so  forth.  .  .  . 

He  had  lost  himself  in  her  deep  eyes.  Her  gaze  lay 
all  over  him,  over  his  entire  being,  like  a  warm  soft  cover- 
ing that  blessed  and  healed.  She  was  so  close  that  it  seemed 
he  drew  her  breath  in  with  his  own.  She  made  a  movement 
then,  a  tiny  gesture.  He  let  go  the  hands  his  own  had  held 
so  long.  He  turned  from  the  window  and  from  her.  He 
was  trembling. 

"What  came  later,"  he  resumed  in  his  calm,  almost  in 
his  professional  voice,  "you  probably  do  not  remember?" 
He  went  towards  his  desk.  "We  need  not  talk  about  that. 
No  doubt,  in  your  mind,  it  all  remains  a  blurred  impres- 
sion  " 

She  interrupted,  following  him  across  the  room.  "What 
happened,  Edward,"  she  said  very  quietly  in  her  lowest 
tone,  "/  know.  It  was  all  told  to  me.  But  my  memory, 
as  you  say,  is  so  faint  as  to  be  worthless  really.  What  I 
do  remember  is  this" — she  tapped  her  open  palm  with  two 
fingers  slowly,  as  she  spoke  the  words — "light,  heat,  a  smell 
of  flowers  and  a  rushing  wind  that  lifted  me  into  some 
kind  of  exhilarating  liberty  where  I  felt — the  intense  joy 
of  knowing  myself  somehow  free — and  greater,  oh,  far 
greater — than  I  am — now."  Then  she  suddenly  whispered 
again  too  low  for  him  to  catch — "angelic."  A  smile,  as  of 
glory,  rippled  across  her  face. 

His  voice,  coming  quickly,  was  cool,  its  tone  measured : 


274  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"And  you  will  come  to  see  him  the  moment  I  let  you 
know,"  he  interrupted  abruptly.  "It  may  be  a  few  days, 

it  may  be  a  week.  The  instant  it  seems  wise "  He  was 

entirely  practical  again. 

She  went  to  the  door  with  him.  "I'll  come,  of  course," 
she  answered,  as  he  opened  the  door. 

"I'll  let  myself  out,  Edward — please.  I  know  the  way. 
There's  no  good  being  a  partner  if  one  doesn't  know  the 
way  out "  She  laughed. 

"And  in,  remember!"  he  called  down  the  little  passage 
after  her,  as,  with  a  smile  and  a  wave  of  the  hand,  she 
was  gone. 

He  went  back  to  his  desk,  drew  a  piece  of  paper  towards 
him,  and  jotted  a  few  notes  down  in  briefest  fashion.  The 
expression  on  his  rugged  face  was  enigmatical  perhaps,  but 
the  sternness  at  least  was  clear  to  read,  and  it  was  this, 
combining  with  an  extraordinary  tenderness,  that  drew  out 
its  nobility : 

"Intensification  of  consciousness,  involving  increased 
activity  of  every  centre;  hearing,  sight,  touch  and  smell, 
all  affected.  Slight  exteriorization  of  consciousness  also 
took  place.  No  signs  of  split  or  divided  personality,  but 
an  increase  of  coherence  rather.  The  central  self  active 
— aware  of  greater  powers  in  time  and  space,  hence  sense 
of  joy,  heat,  light,  sound,  motion.  Distinct  subliminal  up- 
rush,  followed  by  customary  loss  of  memory  later.  Her 
whole  being,  together  with  neglected  tracts  as  yet  untouched 
by  experience — her  entire  being — reached  simultaneously. 
Knew  herself  for  the  first  time  a  woman — but  something 
more  as  well.  Unearthly  complex,  visible. 

"Appeal  made  direct  to  subconscious  self.  Unfavourable 
reactions — none.  Favourable  reactions — increased  physical 
and  mental  strength.  .  .  ." 

He  laid  down  his  pencil  as  with  a  gesture  of  impatience 
at  its  uselessness,  and  sat  back  in  the  chair,  thinking. 

The  effect  "N.  H."  had  upon  other  people  was  here 
again  confirmed.  That,  at  least,  seemed  reasonably  clear. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  275 

Vitality  was  increased;  heart  and  mind  caught  up  an  extra 
gear ;  thought  leaped,  if  extravagantly,  towards  speculation ; 
emotion  deepened,  if  ecstatically,  towards  belief.  All  the 
normal  reactions  of  the  system  were  speeded  up  and 
strengthened.  Consciousness  was  intensified. 

More  than  this — with  some  it  was  extended,  and  sub- 
liminal powers  were  set  free.  In  his  own  experience  this 
had  been  the  case ;  the  sight,  hearing,  even  a  mild  degree  of 
divination,  had  opened  in  his  being.  It  had,  similarly,  taken 
place  with  Devonham,  an  unlikely  subject,  who  fought 
against  acknowledging  it.  Father  Collins,  too,  he  suspected 
— he  recalled  his  behaviour  and  strange  language — had 
known  also  a  temporary  extension  of  faculty  outside  the 
normal  field.  He  remembered,  again,  the  Customs  official, 
Charing  Cross  Station,  and  a  dozen  other  minor  in- 
stances. .  .  .  Indications  as  yet  were  slight,  he  realized,  but 
they  were  valuable. 

Such  abnormal  experiences,  moreover,  each  one  inter- 
preted, respectively,  in  the  terms  of  his  own  individual 
being,  of  his  own  temperament,  his  own  personal  shibbo- 
leths. The  law  governing  unusual  experience  operated  in- 
variably. 

Was  not  his  own  particular  "vision"  easily  explained? 
It  might  indeed,  had  it  happened  earlier,  have  found  a 
place  in  his  own  book  of  Advanced  Psychology.  He  re- 
flected rapidly:  He  believed  the  industrial  system  lay  at 
the  root  of  Civilization's  crumbling,  and  that  man  must 
return  to  Nature — therefore  his  yearnings  dramatized  them- 
selves in  personified  representations  of  the  beauty  of  Nature. 

He  could  trace  every  detail  of  his  Vision  to  some  intense 
but  unrealized  yearning,  to  some  deep  hope,  desire,  dream, 
as  yet  unfulfilled.  Always  these  yearnings  and  wishes 
unfulfilled ! 

Colour,  form  and  sound  again — he  used  them  one  and 
all  in  his  treatment  of  special  cases,  and  felt  hurt  by  the 
ignorant  scoffing  and  denial  of  his  brother  doctors.  Hence 
their  present  dramatization. 


276  THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

His  immense  belief,  again,  in  the  results  upon  the  Race 
when  once  the  subliminal  powers  should  have  reached  the 
stage  where  they  could  be  used  at  will  for  practical  pur- 
poses— this,  in  its  turn,  led  him  to  hope,  perhaps  to  believe, 
that  this  strange  "Case"  might  prove  to  be  some  fabulous 
bright  messenger  who  brought  glad  tidings.  .  .  .  All,  all 
was  explicable  enough! 

A  smile  stole  over  his  face;  he  began  to  laugh  quietly 
to  himself.  .  .  . 

Yes,  he  could  explain  all,  trace  all  to  something  or  other 
in  his  being,  yet — he  knew  that  the  real  explanation  .  .  . 
well — his  cleverest  intellectual  explanation  and  analysis 
were  worthless  after  all.  For  here  lay  something  utterly 
beyond  his  knowledge  and  experience.  .  .  . 

The  note  of  another  searcher  recurred  to  him. 

"Each  human  being  has  within  himself  that  restless 
creative  phantasy  which  is  ever  engaged  in  assuaging  the 
harshness  of  reality.  .  .  .  Whoever  gives  himself  unspar- 
ingly and  carefully  to  self-observation  will  realize  that  there 
dwells  within  him  something  which  would  gladly  hide  up 
and  cover  all  that  is  difficult  and  questionable  in  life,  and 
thus  procure  an  easy  and  free  path.  Insanity  grants  the 
upper  hand  to  this  something.  When  once  it  is  uppermost, 
reality  is  more  or  less  quickly  driven  out." 

But  he  knew  quite  well  that  although  he  belonged  to 
what  he  called  the  "Unstable,"  the  "something"  which  Jung 
referred  to  had  by  no  means  obtained  "the  upper  hand." 
The  vista  opening  to  his  inner  sight  led  towards  a  new 
reality.  .  .  .  Ah!  If  he  could  only  persuade  Paul  Devon- 
ham  to  see  what  he  saw  .  .  ! 


CHAPTER  XXII 

LADY  GLEESON  had  heard  from  a  Promethean  what 
had  transpired  in  the  studio  after  she  had  left,  and 
her  interest  was  immensely  stimulated.  These  details  she 
had  not  known  when  she  had  driven  her  hero  home,  and 
had  felt  so  strangely  drawn  to  him  that  she  had  kissed  him 
in  front  of  Dr.  Fillery  as  though  she  caressed  a  prisoner 
under  the  eyes  of  the  warder. 

She  made  her  little  plans  accordingly.  It  was  some  days, 
however,  before  they  bore  fruit.  The  telephone  at  last 
rang.  It  was  Dr.  Fillery.  The  nerves  in  her  quivered  with 
anticipation. 

Devonham,  it  appeared,  had  been  away,  and  her  "kind 
letters  and  presents,"  he  regretted  to  find,  had  remained 
unanswered  and  unacknowledged.  Mr.  LeVallon  had  been 
in  the  country,  too,  with  his  colleague,  and  letters  had  not 
been  forwarded.  Oh,  it  would  "do  him  good  to  see  people." 
It  would  be  delightful  if  she  could  spare  a  moment  to  looR 
in.  Perhaps  for  a  cup  of  tea  to-morrow?  No,  to-morrow 
she  was  engaged.  The  next  day  then.  The  next  day  it 
was.  In  the  morning  arrived  a  brief  letter  from  Mr.  Le- 
Vallon himself :  "You  will  come  to  tea  to-morrow.  I  thank 
you. — JULIAN  LEVALLON." 

Yet  there  was  something  both  in  Dr.  Fillery's  voice,  as 
in  this  enigmatic  letter,  that  she  did  not  like.  She  felt 
puzzled  somewhere.  The  excitement  of  a  novel  intrigue 
with  this  unusual  youth,  none  the  less,  was  stimulating. 
She  decided  to  go  to  tea.  She  put  off  a  couple  of  engage- 
ments in  order  to  be  ^ree. 

A  servant  let  her  in.  She  went  upstairs.  There  was 

277 


278  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

no  sign  of  Dr.  Fillery  nor,  thank  heaven,  of  Devonham 
either.  Tea,  she  saw,  was  laid  for  two  in  the  private  sitting- 
room.  LeVallon,  seated  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  open 
window,  looked  "magnificent  and  overpowering,"  as  she 
called  it.  He  rose  at  once  to  greet  her.  "Thank  you,"  he 
said  in  his  great  voice.  "I  am  glad  to  see  you."  He  said 
it  perfectly,  as  though  it  had  been  taught  him.  He  took 
her  hand.  Her  ravishing  smile,  perhaps,  he  did  not  notice. 
His  face,  at  any  rate,  was  grave. 

His  height,  his  broad  shoulders,  his  inexperienced  eyes 
and  manner  again  delighted  Lady  Gleeson. 

The  effect  upon  her  receptive  temperament,  at  any  rate, 
was  instantaneous.  That  he  showed  no  cordiality,  did  not 
smile,  and  that  his  manner  was  constrained,  meant  nothing 
to  her — or  meant  what  she  wished  it  to  mean.  He  was 
somewhat  overcome,  of  course,  she  reflected,  that  she  was 
here  at  all.  She  began  at  once.  Sitting  composedly  on  the 
edge  of  the  table,  so  that  her  pretty  silk  stockings  were 
visible  to  the  extent  she  thought  just  right,  she  dangled 
her  slim  legs  and  looked  him  straight  in  the  eyes.  She  was 
full  of  confidence.  Her  attitude  said  plainly:  "I'm  taking 
a  lot  of  trouble,  but  you're  worth  it." 

"Mr.  LeVallon,"  she  purred  in  a  teasing  yet  determined 
voice,  "why  do  you  ignore  me?"  There  was  an  air  of 
finality  about  the  words.  She  meant  to  know. 

LeVallon  met  her  eyes  with  a  look  of  puzzled  surprise, 
but  did  not  answer.  He  stood  in  front  of  her.  He  looked 
really  magnificent,  a  perfect  study  of  the  athlete  in  repose. 
He  might  have  been  a  fine  Greek  statue. 

"Why,"  she  repeated,  her  lip  quivering  slightly,  "do  you 
ignore  me?  I  want  the  truth,"  she  added.  She  was  de- 
lighted to  see  how  taken  aback  he  was.  "You  don't  dislike 
me."  It  was  not  a  question. 

Into  his  eyes  stole  an  expression  she  could  not  exactly 
fathom.  She  judged,  however,  that  he  felt  awkward, 
foolish.  Her  interest  doubtless  robbed  him  of  any  savoir 
faire  he  might  possess.  This  talk  face  to  face  was  a  little 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  279 

too  much  for  any  young  man,  but  for  a  simple  country 
youth  it  was,  of  course,  more  than  disconcerting. 

"I'm  Lady  Gleeson,"  she  informed  him,  smiling  precisely 
in  the  way  she  knew  had  troubled  so  many  other  men. 
"Angela,"  she  added  softly.  "You've  had  my  books  and 
flowers  and  letters.  Yet  you  continue  to  ignore  me.  Why, 
please?"  With  a  different  smile  and  a  pathetic,  childish, 
voice:  "Have  I  offended  you  somehow?  Do  I  displease 
you  ?" 

LeVallon  stared  at  her  as  though  he  was  not  quite  certain 
who  she  actually  was,  yet  as  though  he  ought  to  know, 
and  that  her  words  now  reminded  him.  He  stared  at  her 
with  what  she  called  his  "awkward  and  confused"  expres- 
sion, but  which  Fillery,  had  he  been  present,  would  have 
recognized  as  due  to  his  desire  to  help  a  pitiful  and  hungry 
creature — that,  in  a  word,  his  instinct  for  service  had  been 
a  little  stirred. 

The  scene  was  certainly  curious  and  unusual. 

LeVallon,  with  his  great  strength  and  dignity,  yet  some- 
thing tender,  pathetic  in  his  bearing,  stood  staring 
at  her.  Lady  Gleeson,  brimming  with  a  sense  of  easy 
victory,  sat  on  the  table-edge,  her  pretty  legs  well  forward, 
knowing  herself  divinely  gowned.  She  had  her  victim, 
surely,  at  a  disadvantage.  She  felt  at  the  same  time  a  faint 
uneasiness  she  could  not  understand.  She  concealed  it, 
however. 

"I  suffer  here,"  he  said  suddenly  in  a  quiet  tone. 

She  gave  a  start.  It  was  the  phrase  he  had  used  before. 
She  thrilled.  She  hitched  her  skirt  a  fraction  higher. 

"Julian,  poor  boy,"  she  said — then  stared  at  him.  "How 
innocent  you  are!"  She  said  it  with  apparent  impulse, 
though  her  little  frenzied  mind  was  busy  calculating.  There 
came  a  pause.  He  said  nothing.  He  was,  apparently,  quite 
innocent,  extraordinarily,  exasperatingly  innocent. 

In  a  low  voice,  smiling  shyly,  she  added — as  though  it 
cost  her  a  great  effort  • 

"You  do  not  recognize  what  is  yours." 


280  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"You  are  sacred!"  he  replied  with  startling  directness, 
as  though  he  suddenly  understood,  yet  was  stupidly  per- 
plexed. "You  already  have  your  man." 

Lady  Gleeson  gulped  down  a  spasm  of  laughter.  How 
slow  these  countrymen  could  be!  Yet  she  must  not  shock 
him.  He  was  suffering,  besides.  This  yokel  from  the 
woods  and  mountains  needed  a  little  coaxing.  It  was  natural 
enough.  She  must  explain  and  teach,  it  seemed.  Well 
— he  was  worth  the  trouble.  His  beauty  was  mastering  her 
already.  She  loved,  in  particular,  his  innocence,  his  shyness, 
his  obvious  respect.  She  almost  felt  herself  a  magnanimous 
woman. 

"My  man!"  she  mentioned.  "Oh,  he's  finished  with  me 
long  ago.  He's  bored.  He  has  gone  elsewhere.  I  am 
alone" — she  added  with  an  impromptu  inspiration — "and 
free  to  choose." 

"It  must  be  pain  and  loneliness  to  you." 

LeVallon  looked,  she  thought,  embarrassed.  He  was 
struggling  with  himself,  of  course.  She  left  the  table  and 
came  up  close  to  him.  She  stood  on  tiptoe,  so  that  her 
breath  might  touch  his  face.  Her  eyes  shone  with  fire. 
Her  voice  trembled  a  little.  It  was  very  low. 

"I  choose — you,"  she  whispered.  She  cast  down  her 
shining  eyes.  Her  lips  took  on  a  prim,  inviting  turn.  She 
knew  she  was  irresistible  like  that.  She  stood  back  a  step, 
as  if  expecting  some  tumultuous  onslaught.  She  waited. 

But  the  onslaught  did  not  come.  LeVallon,  towering 
above  her,  merely  stared.  His  arms  hung  motionless. 
There  was,  indeed,  expression  in  his  face,  but  it  was  not 
the  expression  that  she  expected,  longed  for,  deemed  her 
due.  It  puzzled  her,  as  something  entirely  new. 

"Me!"  he  repeated,  in  an  even  tone.  He  gazed  at  her 
in  a  peculiar  way.  Was  it  appraisement?  Was  it  halting 
wonder  at  his  marvellous  good  fortune?  Was  it  that  he 
hesitated,  judging  her?  He  seemed,  she  thought  once  for 
an  instant,  curiously  indifferent.  Something  in  his  voice 
startled  her. 


THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER  281 

The  moment's  pause,  at  any  rate,  was  afflicting.  Her 
spirit  burned  within  her.  Only  her  supreme  belief  in  her- 
self prevented  a  premature  explosion.  Yet  something 
troubled  her  as  well.  A  tremor  ran  through  her.  LeVallon, 
she  remembered,  was — LeVallon. 

His  own  thought  and  feeling  lay  hidden  from  her  blunt 
perception  since  she  read  no  signs  unless  they  were  pain- 
fully obvious.  But  in  his  mind — in  his  feeling,  rather, 
since  he  did  not  think — ran  evidently  the  sudden  knowledge 
of  what  her  meaning  was.  He  understood.  But  also,  per- 
haps he  remembered  what  Fillery  had  told  him. 

For  a  long  time  he  kept  silent,  the  emotions  in  him 
apparently  at  grips.  Was  he  suddenly  going  to  carry  her 
away  as  he  had  done  to  that  "little  Russian  poseuse"  ?  She 
watched  him.  He  was  intensely  busy  with  what  occupied 
his  mind,  for  though  he  did  not  speak,  his  lips  were  moving. 
She  watched  him,  impatience  and  wonder  in  her,  impatience 
at  his  slowness,  wonder  as  to  what  he  would  do  and  say 
when  at  last  his  simple  mind  had  decided.  And  again  the 
odd  touch  of  fear  stole  over  her.  Something  warned  her. 
This  young  man  thrilled  her,  but  he  certainly  was  strange. 
This  was,  indeed,  a  new  experience.  Whatever  was  he 
thinking  about?  What  in  the  world  was  he  going  to  say? 
His  lips  were  still  moving.  There  was  a  light  in  his  face. 
She  imagined  the  very  words,  could  almost  read  them,  hear 
them.  There!  Then  she  heard  them,  heard  some  at  any 
rate  distinctly:  "You  are  an  animal.  Yet  you  walk  up- 
right. ..." 

The  scene  that  followed  went  like  lightning. 

Before  Lady  Gleeson  could  move  or  speak,  however,  he 
also  said  another  thing  that  for  one  pulsing  second,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  her  life,  made  her  own  utter  worthlessness 
become  appallingly  clear  to  her.  It  explained  the  touch  of 
fear.  Even  her  one  true  thing,  her  animal  passion,  was  a 
trumpery  affair: 

"There  is  nothing  in  you  I  can  work  with,"  he  said  with 
gentle,  pitying  sympathy.  "Nothing  I  can  use." 


282  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Then  Lady  Gleeson  blazed.  Vanity  instantly  restored 
self-confidence.  It  seemed  impossible  to  believe  her  ears. 

What  had  he  done?  What  had  he  said  that  caused  the 
explosion  ?  He  watched  her  abrupt,  spasmodic  movements 
with  amazemnt.  They  were  so  ugly,  so  unrhythmical.  Their 
violence  was  so  wasteful. 

"You  insult  me !"  she  cried,  making  these  violent  move- 
ments of  her  whole  body  that,  to  him,  were  unintelligible. 
"How  dare  you?  You "  The  breath  choked  her. 

"Cad,"  he  helped  her,  so  suddenly  that  another  mind  not 
far  away  might  almost  have  dropped  the  word  purposely 
into  his  own.  "I  am  so  pained,"  he  added,  "so  pained." 
He  gazed  at  her  as  though  he  longed  to  help.  "For  you,  I 
know,  are  valuable  to  him  who  holds  you  sacred — to — your 
husband." 

Lady  Gleeson  simply  could  not  credit  her  ears.  This 
neat,  though  unintentional,  way  of  transferring  the  epithet 
to  her  who  deserved  it,  left  her  speechless.  Her  fury  in- 
creased with  her  inability  to  express  it.  She  could  have 
struck  him,  killed  him  on  the  spot.  Her  face  changed  from 
white  to  crimson  like  some  toy  with  a  trick  of  light  inside  it. 
She  seemed  to  emit  sparks.  She  was  transfixed.  And  the 
shiver  that  ran  through  her  was,  perhaps,  for  once,  both 
sexual  and  spiritual  at  once. 

"You  insult  me,"  she  cried  again  helplessly.  "You  insult 
me!" 

"If  there  was  something  in  you  I  could  work  with — 

help "  he  began,  his  face  showing  a  tender  sympathy 

that  enraged  her  even  more.  He  started  suddenly,  looking 
closer  into  her  blazing  eyes.  "Ah,"  he  said  quickly  below 
his  breath,  "the  fire — the  little  fire!"  His  expression 
altered.  But  Lady  Gleeson,  full  of  her  grievance,  did  not 
catch  the  words,  it  seemed. 

" — In  my  tenderest,  my  most  womanly  feelings,"  she 
choked  on,  yet  noticing  the  altered  expression  on  his  face. 
"How  dare  you?"  Her  voice  became  shrill  and  staccato. 
Then  suddenly — mistaking  the  look  in  his  eyes  for  shame — 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  283 

she  added:  "You  shall  apologize.  You  shall  apologize  at 
once !"  She  screamed  the  words.  They  were  the  only  ones 
that  her  outraged  feelings  found. 

"You  show  yourself,  my  fire,"  he  was  saying  softly  in 
his  deep  resonant  voice.  "Oh,  I  see  and  worship  now;  I 
understand  a  little." 

His  look  astonished  her  even  in  the  middle  of  her  anger 
— the  pity,  kindness,  gentleness  in  it.  The  bewilderment 
she  did  not  notice.  It  was  the  evident  desire  to  be  of  service 
to  her,  to  help  and  comfort,  that  infuriated  her.  The  su- 
periority was  more  than  she  could  stand. 

"And  on  your  knees,"  she  yelped ;  "on  your  knees,  too !" 

Drawing  herself  up,  she  pointed  to  the  carpet  with  an 
air  of  some  tragedy  queen  to  whom  a  lost  self-respect  came 
slowly  back.  "Down  there!"  she  added,  as  the  gleaming 
buckle  on  her  shoe  indicated  the  spot.  She  did  not  forget 
to  show  her  pretty  stockings  as  well. 

The  picture  was  comic  in  the  extreme,  yet  with  a  pathetic 
twist  about  it  that,  had  she  possessed  a  single  grain  of 
humour,  must  have  made  her  feel  foolish  and  shamed  until 
she  died,  for  his  kneeling  position  rendered  her  insignifi- 
cance so  obvious  it  was  painful  in  the  extreme.  LeVallon 
clasped  his  hands;  his  face,  wearing  a  dignity  and  tender- 
ness that  emphasized  its  singular  innocence  and  beauty, 
gazed  up  into  her  trivial  prettiness,  as  she  sat  on  the  edge 
of  the  table  behind  her,  glaring  down  at  him  with  angry  but 
still  hungry  eyes. 

"I  should  have  helped  and  worshipped,"  his  deep  voice 
thrilled.  "I  am  ashamed.  Always — you  are  sacred,  won- 
derful. I  did  not  recognize  your  presence  calling  me.  I 
did  not  hear  nor  understand.  I  am  ashamed." 

The  strange  words  she  did  not  comprehend,  even  if  she 
heard  them  properly.  For  one  moment  she  knew  a  dread- 
ful feeling  that  they  were  not  addressed  to  her  at  all,  but  the 
sense  of  returning  triumph,  the  burning  desire  to  extract 
from  him  the  last  ounce  of  humiliation,  to  make  him  suffer 
as  much  as  in  her  power  lay,  these  emotions  deadened  any 


284  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

perceptions  of  a  subtler  kind.  He  was  kneeling  at  her  feet, 
stammering  his  abject  apology,  and  the  sight  was  wine  and 
food  to  her.  Though  she  could  have  crushed  him  with  her 
foot,  she  could  equally  have  flung  herself  in  utter  aban- 
donment before  his  glorious  crouching  strength.  She 
adored  the  scene.  He  looked  magnificent  on  his  knees.  He 
was.  She  believed  she,  too,  looked  magnificent. 

"You  apologize  to  me,"  she  said  in  a  trembling  voice, 
tense  with  mingled  passions. 

"Oh,  with  what  sadness  for  my  mistake  you  cannot 
know,"  was  his  strange  reply.  His  voice  rang  with  sin- 
cerity, his  eyes  held  a  yearning  that  almost  lent  him 
radiance.  Yet  it  was  the  sense  of  power  he  gave  that 
thrilled  Lady  Gleeson  most.  For  she  could  not  understand 
it.  Again  a  passing  hint  of  something  remote,  incalculable, 
touched  her  sense  of  awe.  She  shivered  slightly.  LeVallon 
did  not  move. 

Appeased,  yet  puzzled,  she  lowered  her  face,  now  pale 
and  intense  with  eagerness,  towards  his  own,  hardly  con- 
scious that  she  did  so,  while  the  faint  idea  again  went  past 
her  that  he  addressed  his  astonishing  words  elsewhere. 
Blind  vanity  at  once  dismissed  the  notion,  though  the  shock 
of  its  brief  disthroning  had  been  painful.  She  found  satis- 
faction for  her  wounded  soul.  A  man  who  had  scorned 
her,  now  squirmed  before  her  beauty  on  his  knees,  desiring 
her — but  too  late. 

"You  have  some  manhood,  after  all !"  she  exclaimed,  still 
fierce,  the  upper  lip  just  revealing  the  shining  little  teeth. 
Her  power  at  last  had  touched  him.  He  suffered.  And  she 
was  glad. 

"I  worship,"  he  repeated,  looking  through  her  this  time, 
if  not  actually  past  her.  "You  are  sacred,  the  source  of  all 
my  life  and  power."  His  pain,  his  worship,  the  aching 
passion  in  him  made  her  forget  the  insult.  Upon  that  face 
upturned  so  close  to  hers,  she  now  breathed  softly. 

"I'll  try,"  she  said  more  calmly.  "I'll  try  and  forgive 
you — just  this  once."  The  suffering  in  his  eyes,  so  close 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  285 

against  her  own,  dawned  more  and  more  on  her.  "There, 
now,"  she  added  impulsively,  "perhaps  I  will  forgive  you — 
altogether !" 

It  was  a  moment  of  immense  and  queenly  generosity. 
She  felt  sublime. 

LeVallon,  however,  made  no  rejoinder;  one  might  have 
thought  he  had  not  heard ;  only  his  head  sank  lower  a  little 
before  her. 

She  had  him  at  her  mercy  now ;  the  rapt  and  wonderful 
expression  in  his  eyes  delighted  her.  She  bent  slightly 
nearer  and  made  as  though  to  kiss  him,  when  a  new  idea 
flashed  suddenly  through  her  mind.  This  forgiveness  was 
a  shade  too  quick,  too  easy.  Oh,  she  knew  men.  She  was 
not  without  experience. 

She  acted  with  instant  decision  upon  her  new  idea,  as 
though  delay  might  tempt  her  to  yield  too  soon.  She 
straightened  up  with  a  sudden  jerk,  touched  his  cheek  with 
her  hand,  then,  with  a  swinging  swish  of  her  skirts,  but 
without  a  single  further  word,  she  swept  across  the  room. 
She  went  out,  throwing  him  a  last  glance  just  before  she 
closed  the  door.  At  his  kneeling  figure  and  upturned  face 
she  flung  this  last  glance  of  murderous  fascination. 

But  LeVallon  did  not  move  or  turn  his  head ;  he  made  no 
sign;  his  attitude  remained  precisely  as  before,  face  up- 
turned, hands  clasped,  his  expression  rapt  and  grave  as 
ever.  His  voice  continued: 

"I  worship  you  for  ever.  I  did  not  know  you  in  that 
little  shape.  O  wondrous  central  fire,  teach  me  to  be  aware 
of  you  with  awe,  with  joy,  with  love,  even  in  the  smallest 
things.  O  perfect  flame  behind  all  form.  .  .  ." 

For  a  long  time  his  deep  tones  poured  their  resonant 
vibration  through  the  room.  There  came  an  answering 
music,  low,  faint,  continuous,  a  long,  deep  rhythm  running 
in  it.  There  was  a  scent  of  flowers,  of  open  space,  a  fra- 
grance of  a  mountain  top.  The  sounds,  the  perfume,  the 
touch  of  cool  refreshing  wind  rose  round  him,  increasing 
with  every  minute,  till  it  seemed  as  though  some  energy 


286  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

informed  them.  At  the  centre  he  knelt  steadily,  light  glow- 
ing faintly  in  his  face  and  on  his  skin.  A  vortex  of  energy 
swept  round  him.  He  drew  upon  it.  His  own  energy  was 
increased  and  multiplied.  He  seemed  to  grow  more 
radiant.  .  .  . 

A  few  minutes  later  the  door  opened  softly  and  Dr. 
Fillery  looked  in,  hesitated  for  a  second,  then  advanced  into 
the  room.  He  paused  before  the  kneeling  figure.  It  was 
noticeable  that  he  was  not  startled  and  that  his  face  wore  no 
expression  of  surprise.  A  smile  indeed  lay  on  his  lips.  He 
noticed  the  scent  of  flowers,  a  sweetness  in  the  air  as  after 
rain;  he  felt  the  immense  vitality,  the  exhilaration,  the 
peace  and  power  too.  He  had  made  no  sound,  but  the 
other,  aware  of  his  presence,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"I  disturbed  you,"  said  Fillery.    "I'm  sorry.    Shall  I  go  ?" 

"I  was  worshipping,"  replied  "N.  H."  "No,  do  not  go. 
There  was  a  little  flash" — he  looked  about  him  for  an  instant 
as  if  slightly  bewildered — "a  little  sign — something  I  might 
have  helped — but  it  has  gone  again.  Then  I  worshipped, 
asking  for  more  power.  You  notice  it?"  he  asked,  with  a 
radiant  smile. 

"I  notice  it,"  said  Fillery,  smiling  back.  He  paused  a 
moment.  His  eye  took  in  the  tea-things  and  saw  they  were 
untouched ;  he  felt  the  tea-pot.  It  was  still  warm.  "Come," 
he  said  happily;  "we'll  have  some  tea  together.  I'll  send 
for  a  fresh  brew."  He  rang  the  bell,  then  arranged  the 
chairs  a  little  differently.  "Your  visitor  ?"  he  asked.  "You 
are  expecting  someone?" 

"N.  H."  looked  round  him  suddenly.  "Oh!"  he  ex- 
claimed, "but — she  has  gone !" 

His  surprise  was  comical,  but  the  expression  on  the  face 
changed  in  his  rapid  way  at  once.  "I  remember  now.  Your 
Lady  Gleeson  came,"  he  added,  a  touch  of  gentle  sadness 
in  his  voice,  "I  gave  her  pain.  You  had  told  me.  I  for- 
got " 

"You  did  well,"  Fillery  commented  with  smiling  approval 
as  though  the  entire  scene  was  known  to  him,  "you  did  very 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  287 

well.  It  is  a  pity,  only,  that  she  left  too  soon.  If  she  had 
stayed  for  your  worship — your  wind  and  fire  might  have 
helped " 

"N.  H."  shook  his  head.  "There  is  nothing  I  can  work 
with,"  he  replied.  "She  is  empty.  She  destroys  only. 
Why,"  he  added,  "does  she  walk  upright  ?" 

But  Lady  Gleeson  held  very  different  views  upon  the 
recent  scene.  This  magnificent  young  male  she  had  put  in 
his  place,  but  she  had  not  finished  with  him.  No  such  being 
had  entered  her  life  before.  She  was  woman  enough  to  see 
he  was  unusual.  But  he  was  magnificent  as  well,  and, 
secretly,  she  loved  his  grand  indifference. 

She  left  the  house,  however,  with  but  an  uncertain  feel- 
ing that  the  honours  were  with  her.  Two  days  without  a 
word,  a  sign,  from  her  would  bring  him  begging  to  her 
little  feet. 

But  the  "begging"  did  not  come.  The  bell  was  silent,  the 
post  brought  no  humble,  passionate,  abandoned  letter.  She 
fumed.  She  waited.  Her  husband,  recently  returned  to 
London  and  immensely  preoccupied  with  his  concessions, 
her  maid  too,  were  aware  that  Lady  Gleeson  was  impatient. 
The  third,  the  fourth  day  came,  but  still  no  letter. 

Whereupon  it  occurred  to  her  that  she  had  possibly  gone 
too  far.  Having  left  him  on  his  knees,  he  was,  perhaps, 
still  kneeling  in  his  heart,  even  prostrate  with  shame  and 
disappointment.  Afraid  to  write,  afraid  to  call,  he  knew 
not  what  to  do.  She  had  evidently  administered  too  severe 
a  lesson.  Her  callers,  meanwhile,  convinced  her  that  she 
was  irresistible.  There  was  no  woman  like  her  in  the 
world.  She  had,  of  course,  been  too  harsh  and  cruel  with 
this  magnificent  and  innocent  youth  from  the  woods  and 
mountains.  .  .  . 

Thus  it  was  that,  on  the  fourth  day,  feeling  magnanimous 
and  generous,  big-hearted  too,  she  wrote  to  him.  It  would 
be  foolish,  in  any  case,  to  lose  him  altogether  merely  for  a 
moment's  pride: 


288  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"DEAR  MR.  LEVALLON, — I  feel  I  must  send  you  a  tiny  word  to 
let  you  know  that  I  really  have  forgiven  you.  You  behaved,  you 
know,  in  a  way  that  no  man  of  my  acquaintance  has  ever  done 
before.  But  I  feel  sure  now  you  did  not  really  mean  it.  Your  forest 
and  mountain  gods  have  not  taught  you  to  understand  civilized 
women.  So — I  forgive. 

"Please  forget  it  all,  as  I  have  forgotten  it. — Yours, 

"ANGELA  GLEESON. 

"P.  S. — And  you  may  come  and  see  me  soon." 

To  which,  two  days  later,  came  the  reply : 

"DEAR  LADY  GLEESON, — I  thank  you. 

JULIAN  LEVALLON." 

Within  an  hour  of  its  receipt,  she  wrote : 

"DEAR  JULIAN, — I  am  so  glad  you  understand.  I  knew  you  would. 
You  may  come  and  see  me.  I  will  prove  to  you  that  you  are  really 
forgiven.  There  is  no  need  to  feel  embarrassed.  I  am  interested 
in  you  and  can  help  you.  Believe  me,  you  need  a  woman's  guidance. 
All — all  I  have,  is  yours. 

"I  shall  be  at  home  this  afternoon — alone — from  4  to  7  o'clock. 
I  shall  expect  you.  My  love  to  you  and  your  grand  wild  gods! — 
Yours,  "ANGELA. 

"P.  S. — I  want  you  to  tell  me  more  about  your  gods.    Will  you  ?" 

She  sent  it  by  special  messenger,  "Reply"  underlined  on 
the  envelope.  He  did  not  appear  at  the  appointed  hour,  but 
the  next  morning  she  received  his  letter.  It  came  by 
ordinary  post.  The  writing  on  the  envelope  was  not  his. 
Either  Devonham  or  Fillery  had  addressed  it.  And  a 
twinge  of  unaccustomed  emotion  troubled  her.  Intuition, 
it  seems,  survives  even  in  the  coarsest,  most  degraded 
feminine  nature,  ruins  of  some  divine  prerogative  perhaps. 
Lady  Gleeson,  at  any  rate,  flinched  uneasily  before  she 
opened  the  long  expected  missive : 

"DEAR  LADY  GLEESON, — Be  sure  that  you  are  always  under  the 
protection  of  the  gods  even  if  you  do  not  know  them.  They  are 
impersonal.  They  come  to  you  through  passion  but  not  through 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  289 

that  love  of  the  naked  body  which  is  lust.  I  can  work  with  passion 
because  it  is  creative,  but  not  with  lust,  for  it  is  destructive  only. 
Your  suffering  is  the  youth  and  ignorance  of  the  young  uncreative 
animal.  I  can  strive  with  young  animals  and  can  help  them.  But 
I  cannot  work  with  them.  I  beg  you,  listen.  I  love  in  you  the 
fire,  though  it  is  faint  and  piti-ful.  "  JULIAN." 

Lady  Gleeson  read  this  letter  in  front  of  the  looking- 
glass,  then  stared  at  her  reflection  in  the  mirror. 

She  was  dazed.  But  in  spite  of  the  language  she  thought 
"silly,"  she  caught  the  blunt  refusal  of  her  generous  offer. 
She  understood.  Yet,  unable  to  believe  it,  she  looked  at  her 
reflection  again — then,  impulsively,  went  downstairs  to  see 
her  husband. 

It  really  was  more  than  she  could  bear.  The  man  was 
mad,  but  that  did  not  excuse  him. 

"He  is  a  beast,"  she  informed  her  husband,  tearing  up 
the  letter  angrily  before  his  eyes  in  the  library,  while  he 
watched  her  with  a  slavish  admiration  that  increased  her 
fury.  "He  is  nothing  but  an  animal,"  she  added.  "He's 
a— a " 

"Who  ?"  came  the  question,  as  though  it  had  been  asked 
before.  For  Sir  George  wore  a  stolid  and  a  patient  expres- 
sion on  his  kindly  face. 

"That  man  LeVallon,"  she  told  him.  "One  of  Dr. 
Fillery's  cases  I  tried  to — to  help.  Now  he's  written  to 
me " 

George  looked  up  with  infinite  patience  and  desire  in  his 
kindly  gaze. 

"Cut  him  out,"  he  said  dryly,  as  though  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  such  scenes.  "Let  him  rip.  Why  bother,  anyway, 
with  'patients'?" 

And  he  crossed  the  room  to  comfort  her,  knowing  that 
presently  the  reaction  must  make  him  seem  more  desirable 
than  he  really  was.  .  .  . 

"Never  in  my  house  again,"  she  sighed,  as  he  approached 
her  lovingly,  his  fingers  in  his  close  brown  beard.  "He  is 
simply  a  beast — an  animal !" 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

IT  was,  perhaps,  some  cosmic  humour  in  the  silent,  beau- 
tiful stars  which  planned  that  Nayan's  visit  should 
follow  upon  the  very  heels  of  Lady  Gleeson's  call.  Those 
vast  Intelligences  who  note  the  fall  of  even  a  feather,  watch- 
ing and  guarding  the  Race  so  closely  that  they  may  be  said 
in  human  terms  to  love  it,  arranged  the  details  possibly, 
enjoying  the  result  with  their  careless,  sunny  laughter.  At 
any  rate,  Dr.  Fillery  quickly  sent  her  word,  and  she  came. 
To  lust  "N.  H."  had  not  reacted.  How  would  it  be  with 
love? 

The  beautiful  girl  entered  the  room  slowly,  shyly,  as 
though,  certain  of  herself,  she  was  not  quite  certain  what 
she  was  about  to  meet.  Fillery  had  told  her  she  could  help, 
that  she  was  needed;  therefore  she  came.  There  was  no 
thought  of  self  in  her.  Her  first  visit  to  Julian  LeVallon 
after  his  behaviour  in  the  Studio  had  no  selfish  motive  in 
it.  Her  self-confidence,  however,  went  only  to  a  certain 
point;  in  the  interview  with  Fillery  she  had  easily  con- 
trolled herself;  she  was  not  so  sure  that  her  self-control 
would  be  adequate  now.  Though  calm  outwardly,  an  in- 
expressible turmoil  surged  within. 

She  remembered  his  strength,  virility  and  admiration — 
as  a  woman;  his  ingenuous,  childlike  innocence,  an  odd 
appealing  helplessness  in  it  somewhere,  touched  the  mother 
in  her.  That  she  divined  this  latter  was,  perhaps,  the  secret 
of  her  power  over  men.  Independent  of  all  they  had  to 
offer,  she  touched  the  highest  in  them  by  making  them  feel 
they  had  need  of  the  highest  in  herself.  She  obtained  thus, 
without  desiring  it,  the  influence  that  Lady  Gleeson,  her 
antithesis,  lacked.  They  called  her  Nayan  the  Impersonal. 

290 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  291 

The  impersonal  in  her,  nevertheless,  that  which  had  with- 
stood the  cunning  onslaught  of  every  type  of  male  success- 
fully, had  received  a  fundamental  shock.  Both  her  mod- 
esty and  dignity  had  been  assailed,  and  in  public.  Others, 
women  among  them,  had  witnessed  her  apparent  yielding  to 
LeVallon's  violence  and  seen  her  carried  in  his  arms;  they 
had  noted  her  obvious  willingness,  had  heard  her  sym- 
pathetic cry.  She  knew  quite  well  what  the  women  thought 
— Lady  Gleeson  had  written  a  little  note  of  sympathy — the 
men  as  well,  and  yet  she  came  at  Fillery's  call  to  visit,  per- 
haps to  help,  the  offender  who  had  caused  it  all. 

As  she  opened  the  door  every  nerve  she  possessed  was 
tingling.  The  mother  in  her  yearned,  but  the  woman  in  her 
sent  the  blood  rushing  from  her  heart  in  pride,  in  resent- 
ment, in  something  of  anger  as  well.  How  had  he  dared  to 
seize  her  in  that  awful  way?  The  outrage  and  the  love 
both  tore  at  her.  Yet  Nayan  was  not  the  kind  to  shirk 
self -revelation  when  it  came.  She  brought  some  hidden 
secret  with  her,  although  as  yet  herself  uncertain  what  that 
secret  was. 

Fillery  met  her  on  the  threshold  with  his  sweet  tact  and 
sympathy  as  usual.  He  had  an  authoritative  and  paternal 
air  that  helped  and  comforted  her,  and,  as  she  took  his  hand 
at  once,  the  look  she  gave  him  was  more  kind  and  tender 
than  she  knew.  The  last  trace  of  self,  at  any  rate,  went 
out  of  her  as  she  felt  his  touch. 

"Here  I  am,"  she  said;  "you  sent  for  me.  I  promised 
you." 

He  replied  in  a  low  tone:  "There's  no  need  to  refer  to 
anything,  of  course.  Assume — I  suggest — that  he  has  for- 
gotten all  that  happened,  and  you — have  forgotten  too." 

He  was  aware  of  nothing  but  her  eyes.  The  softness, 
the  delicate  perfume,  the  perfect  voice,  even  the  fur  and 
flowers — all  were  summed  up  in  her  eyes  alone.  In  those 
eyes  he  could  have  lost  himself  perhaps  for  ever. 

He  led  her  into  the  room,  a  certain  abruptness  in  his 
manner. 


292  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"I  shall  leave  you  alone,"  he  whispered,  using  his  pro- 
fessional voice.  "It  is  best  that  he  should  see  you  quite 
alone.  I  shall  not  be  far  away,  but  you  will  find  him  per- 
fectly quiet.  He  understands  that  you  are" — his  tone 
changed  upon  the  adjective — "sacred." 

"Sacred,"  she  murmured  to  herself,  repeating  the  word, 
"sacred." 

They  smiled.  And  the  door  closed  behind  her.  Across 
the  room  rose  the  tall  figure  of  the  man  she  had  come  to 
see,  dressed  in  dark  blue,  a  low  white  shirt  open  at  the  neck, 
a  blue  tie  that  matched  the  strong,  clear  eyes,  the  wondrous 
hair  crowning  the  whole  like  a  flame.  The  slant  of  wintry 
sunlight  by  chance  just  caught  the  great  figure  as  it  rose, 
lightly,  easily,  as  though  it  floated  up  out  of  the  floor  before 
her. 

And,  as  by  magic,  the  last  uncertainty  in  her  disappeared ; 
she  knew  herself  akin  to  this  radiant  shape  of  blue  and 
gold;  knew  also — mysteriously — in  a  way  entirely  beyond 
her  to  explain — knew  why  Edward  Fillery  was  dear  to  her. 
Was  it  that  something  in  the  three  of  them  pertained  to  a 
common  origin?  The  conviction,  half  thought,  half  feel- 
ing, rose  in  her  as  she  looked  into  the  blue  eyes  facing  her 
and  took  the  outstretched  hand. 

"You  strange  lost  being !  No  one  will  understand  you — 
here.  .  .  ." 

The  words  flashed  through  her  mind  of  their  own  accord, 
instantly,  spontaneously,  yet  were  almost  forgotten  the  same 
second  in  the  surge  of  more  commonplace  feeling  that  rose 
after.  Only  the  "here"  proved  their  origin  not  entirely 
forgotten.  It  was  the  selfless,  mothering  instinct  that  now 
dominated,  but  the  division  in  her  being  had,  none  the  less, 
been  indicated  as  by  a  white  piercing  light  that  searched  her 
inmost  nature.  That  added  "here"  laid  bare,  she  felt,  some 
part  of  her  which,  with  all  other  men,  was  clothed  and  cov- 
ered away. 

Realized  though  dimly,  this  troubled  her  clear  mind,  as 
she  took  the  chair  he  offered,  the  conviction  that  she  must 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  293 

tend  and  care  for,  even  love  this  strange  youth,  as  though 
he  were  in  exile  and  none  but  herself  could  understand  him. 
She  heard  the  deep  resonant  voice  in  the  air  in  front  of  her : 

"I  am  not  lost  now,"  he  said,  with  his  radiant  smile,  and 
as  if  he  perceived  her  thought  from  the  expression  in  her 
face.  "I  wished  to  take  you  away — to  take  you  back.  I 
wish  it  still." 

He  stood  gazing  down  at  her.  The  deep  tones,  the  shin- 
ing eyes,  the  towering  stature  with  its  quiet  strength — these, 
added  to  the  directness  of  the  language,  confused  her  for 
a  moment.  The  words  were  so  entirely  unexpected.  Fillery 
had  led  her  to  suppose  otherwise.  Yet  before  the  blazing 
innocence  in  his  face  and  manner,  her  composure  at  once 
returned.  She  found  no  words  at  first.  She  smiled  up  into 
his  eyes,  then  pointed  to  a  chair.  Seated  he  would  be  more 
manageable,  she  felt.  His  upright  stature  was  so  over- 
powering. 

"You  had  forgotten "  he  went  on,  obeying  her  wish 

and  sitting  down,  "but  I  could  not  know  that  you  had  for- 
gotten. I  apologize" — the  word  sounded  oddly  on  his  lips, 
as  though  learned  recently — "for  making  you  suffer." 

"Forgotten !" 

A  swift  intuition,  due  to  some  as  yet  undecipherable  kin- 
ship, told  her  that  the  word  bore  no  reference  to  the  Studio 
scene.  Some  larger  meaning,  scaled  to  an  immenser  map, 
came  with  it.  An  unrealized  emotion  stirred  faintly  in  her 
as  she  heard.  Her  first  sight  of  him  as  a  figure  of  light 
returned. 

"But  that  is  all  forgiven  now,"  she  replied  calmly  in  her 
firm,  gentle  voice.  "We  need  not  speak  of  it.  You  under- 
stand now"  —  she  ended  lamely  —  "that  it  is  not  pos- 
sible  " 

He  listened  intently,  gravely,  as  though  with  a  certain 
effort,  his  head  bent  forward  to  catch  every  syllable.  And 
as  he  bent,  peering,  listening,  he  might  have  been  some 
other-worldly  being  staring  down  through  a  window  in  the 
sky  into  the  small  confusions  of  earth's  affairs. 


294  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"Yes,"  he  said,  the  moment  she  stopped  speaking,  "I 
understand  now.  I  shall  never  make  you  suffer  again. 
Only — I  could  not  know  that  you  had  forgotten — so  com- 
pletely." 

"Forgotten?"  she  again  repeated  in  spite  of  herself,  for 
the  way  he  uttered  the  word  again  stirred  that  nameless, 
deep  emotion  in  her.  Their  attitudes  respectively  were 
changing.  She  no  longer  felt  that  she  could  "mother"  this 
great  figure  before  her. 

"Where  we  belong,"  he  answered  in  his  great  quiet  voice. 
"There,"  he  added,  in  a  way  that  made  it  the  counterpart  of 
her  own  spontaneous  and  intuitive  "here."  "It  is  so  easy. 
I  had  forgotten  too.  But  Fillery,  dear  Fillery,  helps  me  to 
remember,  and  the  stars  and  flowers  and  wind,  these  help 
me  too.  And  then  you — when  I  saw  you  I  suddenly 
remembered  more.  I  was  so  happy.  I  remembered  what 
I  had  left  to  come  among  men  and  women.  I  knew  that 
Fillery  and  you  belonged  'there'  with  me.  You,  both,  had 
come  down  for  a  little  time,  come  down  'here,'  but  had 
remained  too  long.  You  had  become  almost  as  men  and 
women  are.  I  remembered  everything  when  I  saw  your 
eyes.  I  was  so  happy  in  a  moment,  as  I  looked  at  you,  that 
I  felt  I  must  go  back,  go  home.  The  central  fire  called  me, 
called  us  all  three.  I  wanted  to  escape  and  take  you  with 
me.  I  knew  by  your  eyes  that  you  were  ready.  You  called 
to  Fillery.  We  were  off." 

He  paused  a  moment,  while  she  listened  in  breathless 
silence. 

"Then,  suddenly,  you  refused.  You  resisted.  Something 
prevented.  The  Messengers  were  there  when  suddenly" — 
an  expression  of  yearning  pain  clouded  his  great  eyes  a 
moment — "you  forgot  again.  I  forgot  too,  forgot  every- 
thing. The  darkness  came.  It  was  cold.  My  enemy,  the 
water,  caught  me." 

He  stopped,  and  passed  his  hands  across  his  forehead, 
sighing,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  vacancy  as  with  an  intense 
effort  to  recover  something.  "And  I  still  forget,"  he  went 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  295 

on,  the  yearning  now  transferred  from  the  eyes  to  the  low- 
ered voice.  "I  can  remember  nothing  again.  All,  all  is  gone 
from  me."  The  light  in  his  face  actually  grew  dimmer  as 
he  slowly  uttered  the  words.  He  leaned  back  in  his  big 
arm-chair.  Again,  it  occurred  to  her,  it  was  as  if  he  drew 
back  from  that  window  in  the  sky. 

A  curious  hollow,  empty  of  life,  seemed  to  drop  into  the 
room  between  them  as  his  voice  ceased. 

While  he  had  been  speaking,  the  girl  watched  and  listened 
with  intense  interest  and  curiosity.  She  remembered  he 
was  a  "patient,"  yet  no  touch  of  uneasiness  or  nervousness 
was  in  her.  His  strange  words,  meaningless  as  they  might 
seem,  woke  deep  echoes  of  some  dim  buried  recognition  in 
her.  It  amazed  and  troubled  her.  This  young  man,  this 
sinner  against  the  conventions  whom  she  had  come  to  com- 
fort and  forgive,  held  the  reins  already.  What  had  hap- 
pened, what  was  happening,  and  how  did  he  contrive  it? 
She  was  aware  of  a  clear,  divining  knowledge  in  him,  a 
power,  a  directness  she  could  not  fathom.  He  seemed  to 
read  her  inside  out.  It  was  more  than  uncanny;  it  was 
spiritual.  It  mastered  her. 

During  his  speech  he  remained  very  still,  without  gesture, 
without  change  of  expression  in  his  face ;  he  made  no  move- 
ment ;  only  his  voice  deepened  and  grew  rhythmical.  And 
a  power  emanated  from  him  she  hardly  dared  resist,  much 
less  deny.  His  voice,  his  words,  reached  depths  in  her  she 
scarcely  knew  herself.  He  was  so  strong,  so  humble,  so 
simple,  yet  so  strangely  peaceful.  And — suddenly  she  real- 
ized it — so  far  beyond  her,  yet  akin.  She  became  aware  that 
the  figure  seated  in  the  chair,  watching  her,  talking,  was 
but  a  fraction  of  his  whole  self.  He  was — the  word  oc- 
curred to  her — immense.  Was  she,  too,  immense? 

More  than  troubled,  she  was  profoundly  stimulated.  The 
mothering  instinct  in  her  for  the  first  time  seemed  to  fail  a 
little.  The  woman  in  her  trembled,  not  quite  sure  of  itself. 
But,  besides  these  t\vo,  there  was  another  part  of  her  that 
listened  and  felt  joy — a  white,  radiant  joy  which,  if  she 


296  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

allowed,  must  become  ecstasy.  Whence  came  this  hint  of 
unearthly  rapture?  Again  there  rose  before  her  the  two 
significant  words :  "There"  and  "Here." 

"I  do  not  quite  understand,"  she  replied,  after  a  moment's 
pause,  looking  into  his  eyes  steadily,  her  voice  firm,  her 
young  face  very  sweet ;  "I  do  not  fully  understand,  perhaps. 
But  I  sympathize."  Then  she  added  suddenly,  with  a  little 
smile:  "But,  at  any  rate,  I  did  not  come  to  make  you 
apologize — Julian.  Please  be  sure  of  that.  I  came  to  see 
if  I  might  be  of  any  use — if  there  was  anything  I  might  do 
to  make " 

His  quick  interruption  transfixed  her. 

"You  came,"  he  said  in  a  distinct,  low  tone,  "because  you 
love  me  and  wish  me  to  love  you.  But  we  do  love  already, 
you,  dear  Fillery,  and  I — only  our  love  is  in  that  great 
Service  where  we  all  three  belong.  It  is  not  of  this — it  is 

not  here "  making  an  impatient  gesture  with  his  hand  to 

indicate  his  general  surroundings. 

He  broke  off  instantly,  noticing  the  expression  in  her  face. 

She  had  realized  suddenly,  as  he  spoke,  the  blind  fury  of 
reproduction  that  sweeps  helpless  men  and  women  every- 
where into  union,  then  flings  them  aside  exhausted,  useless, 
its  purpose  accomplished.  Though  herself  never  yet  caught 
by  it,  the  vivid  realization  made  her  turn  from  life  with 
pity  and  revulsion.  Yet — were  these  thoughts  her  own? 
Whence  did  they  come,  if  not?  And  what  was  this  new 
blind  thing  straining  in  her  mind  for  utterance,  bursting 
upwards  like  a  flame,  threatening  to  split  it  asunder  even 
in  its  efforts  to  escape?  "What  are  these  words  we  use?" 
darted  across  her.  "What  do  they  mean  ?  What  is  it  we're 
talking  about  really?  I  don't  know  quite.  Yet  it's  real,  yes, 
real  and  true.  Only  it's  beyond  our  words.  It's  something 
I  know,  but  have  forgotten.  .  .  ."  That  was  his  word 
again:  "Forgotten"!  While  they  used  words  together, 
something  in  her  went  stumbling,  groping,  thrusting  towards 
a  great  shining  revelation  for  which  no  words  existed.  And 
a  strange,  deep  anguish  seized  her  suddenly. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  297 

"Oh!"  he  cried,  "I  make  you  suffer  again.  The  fire 
leaves  you.  You  are  white.  I — I  will  apologize" — he 
slipped  on  to  his  knees  before  her — "but  you  do  not  under- 
stand. It  was  not  your  sacredness  I  spoke  of."  Already 
on  his  knees  before  her,  but  level  with  her  face  owing  to  his 
great  stature,  gazing  into  her  eyes  with  an  expression  of 
deep  tenderness,  humility,  almost  suffering,  he  added:  "It 
was  our  other  love,  I  meant,  our  great  happy  service,  the 
thing  we  have  forgotten.  You  came,  I  thought,  to  help  me 
to  remember  that.  The  way  home — I  saw  you  knew."  The 
light  streamed  back  into  his  face  and  eyes. 

The  tumult  and  confusion  in  the  girl  were  natural 
enough.  Her  resourcefulness,  however,  did  not  fail  her  at 
this  curious  and  awkward  moment.  His  words,  his  conduct 
were  more  than  she  could  fathom,  yet  behind  both  she 
divined  a  source  of  remote  inspiration  she  had  never  known 
before  in  any  "man."  The  beauty  and  innocence  on  the 
face  arrested  her  faculties  for  a  second.  That  nameless 
emotion  stirred  again.  A  glimmer  of  some  faint,  distant 
light,  whose  origin  she  could  not  guess,  passed  flickering 
across  her  inner  tumult.  Some  faculty  she  could  not  name, 
at  any  rate,  blew  suddenly  to  white  heat  in  her.  This  youth 
on  his  knees  before  her  had  spoken  truth.  Without  know- 
ing it  even  herself,  she  had  given  him  her  love,  a  virgin  love, 
a  woman's  love  hitherto  unawakened  in  her  by  any  other 
man,  but  a  love  not  of  this  earth  quite — because  of  him 
who  summoned  it  into  sudden  flower. 

Yet  at  the  same  time  Ke  denied  the  need  of  it !  He  spoke 
of  some  marvellous  great  shining  Service  that  was  different 
from  the  love  of  man  and  woman. 

This  too,  as  some  forgotten,  lost  ideal,  she  knew  was  also 
true. 

Her  mind,  her  heart,  her  experience,  her  deepest  womanly 
nature,  these,  she  realized  in  a  glowing  instant  of  extra- 
ordinary divination,  were  at  variance  in  her.  She  trembled ; 
she  knew  not  what  to  do  or  say  or  think.  And  again,  it 
came  to  her,  that  the  visible  shape  before  her  was  but  the 


298  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

insignificant  fraction  of  a  being  whose  true  life  spread 
actively  and  unconfined  through  infinite  space. 

She  then  did  something  that  was  prompted,  though  she 
did  not  know  it  thus,  by  her  singleness  of  heart,  her  purity 
of  soul  and  body,  her  unique  and  natural  instinct  to  be  of 
use,  of  service,  to  others — the  accumulated  practice  and 
effort  of  her  entire  life  provided  the  action  along  a  natural 
line  of  least  resistance:  she  bent  down  and  put  her  arm 
and  hand  round  his  great  shoulder.  She  lowered  her  face. 
She  kissed  him  most  tenderly,  with  a  mother's  love,  a 
woman's  secret  passion  perhaps,  but  yet  with  something  else 
as  well  she  could  not  name — an  unearthly  yearning  for  a 
greater  Ideal  than  anything  she  had  yet  known  on  earth 
among  humanity.  ...  It  was  the  invisible  she  kissed. 

And  LeVallon,  she  realized  with  immense  relief,  justified 
her  action,  for  he  did  not  return  the  kiss.  At  the  same 
time  she  had  known  quite  well  it  would  be  thus.  That  kiss 
trembled,  echoed,  in  her  own  greater  unrealized  self  as  well. 

"What  is  it,"  she  whispered,  a  mysterious  passion  surging 
up  in  her  as  she  raised  him  to  his  feet,  "that  you  remember 
and  wish  to  recover — for  us  all  ?  Can  you  tell  me  ?  What 
is  this  great,  happy,  deathless  service  that  we  have  forgot- 
ten?" Her  voice  trembled  a  little.  An  immense  sense  of 
joy,  of  liberty,  shook  out  its  sunlit  wings. 

His  expression,  as  he  rose,  was  something  between  that 
of  a  child  and  a  faithful  yearning  animal,  but  of  a  "divine 
animal,"  though  she  did  not  know  the  phrase.  Its  purity, 
its  sweetness,  its  power — it  was  the  power  she  noticed 
chiefly — were  superb. 

"I  cannot  tell,  I  cannot  remember,"  his  voice  said  softly, 
for  all  its  resonant,  virile  depth.  "It  is  some  state  we  all 
have  come  from — into  this.  We  are  strangers  here.  This 
brain  and  intellect,  this  coarse,  thick  feeling,  this  selfish- 
ness, this  want  of  harmony  and  working  together — all  this 
is  new  and  strange  to  us.  It  is  of  blind  and  clumsy  chil- 
dren. This  love  of  one  single  person  for  one  other  single 
person — it  is  so  pitiful.  We  three  have  come  into  this  for 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  299 

a  time,  a  little  time.  It  is  pain  and  misery.  It  is  prison. 
Each  one  works  only  for  himself.  There  is  no  joy.  They 
know  nothing  of  our  great  Service.  We  cannot  show  them. 
Let  us  go  back " 

Another  pause  fell  between  them,  another  of  those 
singular  hollows  she  had  felt  before.  But  this  time  the 
hollow  was  not  empty.  It  was  brimmed  with  surging  life. 
The  gulf  between  her  earthly  state  and  another  that  was 
nameless,  a  gulf  usually  unbridgeable,  the  fixed  gulf,  as  an 
old  book  has  it,  which  may  not  be  crossed  without  danger  to 
the  Race,  for  whose  protection  it  exists — this  childhood 
simile  occurred  to  her.  And  a  sense  of  awe  stirred  in  her 
being.  It  was  the  realization  that  this  gulf  or  hollow  now 
brimmed  with  life,  that  it  could  be  crossed,  that  she  might 
step  over  into  another  place — the  sense  of  awe  rose  thence, 
yet  came  certainly  neither  from  the  woman  nor  the  mother 
in  her. 

"I  am  of  another  place,"  Le  Vallon  went  on,  plucking  the 
thought  naked  from  her  inmost  being.  "For  I  am  come 
here  recently,  and  the  purpose  of  my  coming  is  hidden  from 
me,  and  memory  is  dark.  But  it  is  not  entirely  dark.  Some- 
times I  half  remember.  Stars,  flowers,  fire,  wind,  women 
— here  and  there — bring  light  into  the  darkness.  Oh,"  he 
cried  suddenly,  "how  wonderful  they  are — how  wonderful 
you  are — on  that  account  to  me!" 

The  voice  held  a  strange,  evoking  power  perhaps.  A 
thousand  yearnings  she  had  all  her  life  suppressed  (because 
they  interfered  with  her  duty — as  she  conceived  it — here 
and  now,  fluttered  like  rising  flames  within  her  as  she  lis- 
tened. His  voice  now  increased  in  volume  and  rhythm, 
though  still  quiet  and  low-pitched ;  it  was  as  if  a  great  wind 
poured  behind  it  with  tremendous  vibrations,  through  it, 
lifting  her  out  of  a  limited,  cramped,  everyday  self.  A 
delicious  warmth  of  happy  comfort,  of  acceptance,  of  en- 
thusiasm glowed  in  her.  And  LeVallon's  face,  she  saw,  had 
become  radiant,  almost  as  though  it  emanated  light.  This 
light  entered  her  being  and  brought  joy  again. 


300  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"Joy !"  he  said,  reading  her  thought  and  feeling.    "Joy  1" 

"Joy!  Another  place!"  she  heard  herself  repeating,  her 
eyes  now  fixed  upon  his  own. 

She  felt  lighter,  caught  up  and  away  a  little,  lifted  above 
the  solid  earth ;  as  if  it  was  heat  that  lightened,  and  wind  that 
bore  her  upwards.  Everything  in  her  became  intensified. 

"Another  state,  another  place" — her  voice  seemed  to  bor- 
row something  of  the  rhythm  in  his  own,  though  she  did 
not  notice  it — "but  not  away  from  earth,  this  beautiful 
earth?"  With  a  happy  smile  she  added,  "I  love  the  dear 
kind  earth,  I  love  it." 

The  light  on  his  face  increased: 

"The  earth  we  love  and  serve,"  he  said,  "is  beautiful,  but 
here" — he  looked  about  him  round  the  room,  at  the  trees 
waving  through  the  window,  at  the  misty  sky  above  draping 
the  pale  light  of  the  sun — "here  I  am  on  the  surface  only. 
There  is  confusion  and  struggle.  Everything  quarrels 
against  everything  else.  It  is  discord  and  disorder.  There 
is  no  harmony.  Here,  on  the  surface,  everything  is  separate. 
There  is  no  working  together.  It  is  all  pain,  each  little  part 
fighting  for  itself.  Here — I  am  outside — there  is  no  joy." 

It  was  the  phrase  "I  am  outside"  that  flashed  something 
more  of  his  meaning  into  her.  His  full  meaning  lay  beyond 
actual  words  perhaps ;  but  this  phrase  fell  like  a  shock  into 
that  inmost  self  which  she  had  deliberately  put  away. 

"You  are  from  inside,  yes,"  she  exclaimed,  marvelling 
afterwards  that  she  had  said  it;  "within — nearer  to  the 
centre !" 

And  he  took  the  abrupt  interruption  as  though  they  both 
understood  and  spoke  of  the  same  one  thing  together,  hav- 
ing found  a  language  born  of  similar  great  yearnings  and 
of  forgotten  knowledge,  times,  states,  conditions,  places. 

"I  come,"  he  said,  his  voice,  his  bright  smile  alive  with 
the  pressure  of  untold  desire,  "from  another  place  that  is — • 
yes — inside,  nearer  to  the  centre.  I  have  forgotten  almost 
everything.  I  remember  only  that  there  was  harmony,  love, 
work  and  happiness  all  combined  in  the  perfect  liberty  of 
our  great  service.  We  served  the  earth.  We  helped  the 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  301 

life  upon  it.  There  was  no  end,  no  broken  fragments,  no' 
failure."  The  voice  touched  chanting.  "There  was  no 
death." 

He  rose  suddenly  and  came  over  to  her  side,  and  in- 
stinctively the  girl  stood  up.  What  she  felt  and  thought  as 
she  heard  the  strange  language  he  used,  she  hardly  knew 
herself.  She  only  knew  in  that  moment  an  immense  desire 
to  help  her  kind,  an  intensification  of  that  great  ideal  of 
impersonal  service  which  had  always  been  the  keynote  of 
her  life.  This  became  vividly  stimulated  in  her.  It  rose 
like  a  dominating,  overmastering  passion.  The  sense  of  in- 
effectual impotence,  of  inability  to  accomplish  anything  of 
value  against  the  stolid  odds  life  set  against  her,  the  useless- 
ness  of  her  efforts  with  the  majority,  in  a  word,  seemed 
brushed  away,  as  though  greater  powers  of  limitless  extent 
were  now  at  last  within  her  reach.  This  blazed  in  her  like 
fire.  It  shone  in  her  big  dark  eyes  that  looked  straight  into 
his  as  they  stood  facing  one  another. 

"And  that  service,"  he  went  on  in  his  deep  vibrating, 
half-singing  tone,  "I  see  in  dear  Fillery  and  in  you.  I  know 
my  own  kind.  We  three,  at  least,  belong.  I  know  my  own." 
The  voice  seemed  to  shake  her  like  a  wind. 

At  the  last  two  words  her  soul  leaped  within  her.  It 
seemed  quite  natural  that  his  great  arm  should  take  her 
breast  and  shoulder  and  that  his  lips  should  touch  her  cheek 
and  hair.  For  there  was  worship  in  both  gestures. 

"Our  greater  service,"  she  whispered,  trembling,  "tell  me 
of  that.  What  is  it?"  His  touch  against  her  was  like  the 
breath  of  fire. 

Her  womanly  instincts,  so-called,  her  maternal  love,  her 
feminine  impulses  deserted  her.  She  was  aware  solely  at 
that  moment  of  the  proximity  of  a  being  who  called  her  to 
a  higher,  to,  at  any  rate,  a  different  state,  to  something 
beyond  the  impoverished  conditions  of  humanity  as  she  had 
hitherto  experienced  it,  to  something  she  had  ever  yearned 
and  longed  for  without  knowing  what  it  was.  An  extraor- 
dinary sense  of  enormous  liberty  swept  over  her  again. 

His  voice  broke  and  the  rhythm  failed. 


302  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  replied  mournfully,  the  light  fad- 
ing a  little  from  his  eyes  and  face.  "I  have  forgotten.  That 
other  place  is  hidden  from  me.  I  am  in  exile,"  he  added 
slowly,  "but  with  you  and — Fillery."  His  blue  eyes  filled 
with  moisture;  the  expression  of  troubled  loneliness  was 
one  she  had  never  seen  before  on  any  human  face.  "I  suf- 
fer," he  added  gently.  "We  all  suffer." 

And,  at  the  sight  of  it,  the  yearning  to  help,  to  comfort, 
to  fulfil  her  role  as  mother,  returned  confusingly,  and  rose 
in  her  like  a  tide.  He  was  so  big  and  strong  and  splendid. 
He  was  so  helpless.  It  was,  perhaps,  the  innocence  in  the 
great  blue  eyes  that  conquered  her — for  the  first  time  in  her 
life. 

But  behind,  beside  the  mother  in  her,  stirred  also  the 
natural  woman.  And  beyond  this  again,  rose  the  accu- 
mulated power  of  the  entire  Race.  The  instinct  of  all  the 
women  of  the  planet  since  the  world  began  drove  at  her. 
Not  easily  may  an  individual  escape  the  deep  slavery  of  the 
herd. 

The  young  girl  wavered  and  hestitated.  Caught  by  so 
many  emotions  that  whirled  her  as  in  a  vortex,  the  direc- 
tion of  the  resultant  impetus  hung  doubtful  for  some  time. 
During  the  half  hour's  talk,  she  had  entered  deeper  water 
than  she  had  ever  dared  or  known  before.  Life  hitherto, 
so  far  as  men  were  concerned,  had  been  a  simple  and  an 
easy  thing  that  she  had  mastered  without  difficulty.  Her 
real  self  lay  still  unscarred  within  her.  Freely  she  had  given 
the  mothering  care  and  sympathy  that  were  so  strong  in 
her,  the  more  freely  because  the  men  who  asked  of  her  were 
children,  one  and  all,  children  who  needed  her,  but  from 
whom  she  asked  nothing  in  return.  If  they  fell  in  love,  as 
they  usually  did,  she  knew  exactly  how  to  lift  their  emo- 
tion in  a  way  that  saved  them  pain  while  it  left  herself  un- 
touched. None  reached  her  real  being,  which  thus  remained 
unscathed,  for  none  offered  the  lifting  glory  that  she  craved. 

Here,  for  the  first  time  facing  her,  stood  a  being  of 
another  type ;  and  that  unscathed  self  in  her  went  trembling 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  303 

at  the  knowledge.  Here  was  a  power  she  could  not  play 
with,  could  not  dominate,  but  a  power  that  could  play  with 
her  as  easily  as  the  hurricane  with  the  flying  leaf.  It  was 
not  his  words,  his  strange  beauty,  his  great  strength  that 
mastered  her,  though  these  brought  their  contribution 
doubtless.  The  power  she  felt  emanated  unconsciously 
from  him,  and  was  used  unconsciously.  It  was  all  about 
him.  She  realized  herself  a  child  before  him,  and  this  real- 
ization sweetened,  though  it  confused  her  being.  He  so 
easily  touched  depths  in  her  she  had  hardly  recognized  her- 
self. He  could  so  easily  lift  her  to  terrific  heights.  .  .  . 
Various  sides  of  her  became  dominant  in  turn.  .  .  . 

The  inmost  tumult  of  a  good  woman's  heart  is  not  given 
to  men  to  read,  perhaps,  but  the  final  impetus  resulting 
from  the  whirlpool  tossed  her  at  length  in  a  very  definite 
direction.  She  found  her  feet  again.  The  determining 
factor  that  decided  the  issue  of  the  struggle  was  a  small  and 
very  human  one.  He  appealed  to  the  woman  in  her,  yet 
what  stirred  the  woman  was  the  vital  and  afflicting  factor 
that — he  did  not  need  her. 

He  wished  to  help,  to  lift  her  towards  some  impersonal 
ideal  that  remained  his  secret.  He  wished  to  give — he 
could  give — while  she,  for  her  part,  had  nothing  that  he 
needed.  Indeed,  he  asked  for  nothing.  He  was  as  inde- 
pendent of  her  as  she  was  independent  of  these  other  men. 

And  the  woman,  now  faced  for  the  first  time  with  this 
entirely  new  situation,  decided  automatically — that  he 
should  learn  to  need  her.  He  must.  Though  she  had 
nothing  that  he  wanted  from  her,  she  must  on  that  very 
account  give  all.  The  sacrifice  which  stands  ready  for  the 
fire  in  every  true  feminine  heart  was  lighted  there  and  then. 
She  had  found  her  master  and  her  god.  Half  measures 
were  not  possible  to  her.  She  stood  naked  at  the  altar.  But 
in  her  sacrifice  he,  too,  the  priest,  the  deity,  the  master,  he 
also  should  find  love. 

Such  is  the  woman's  power,  however,  to  conceal  from 
herself  the  truth,  that  she  did  not  recognize  at  first  what 


304  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

this  decision  was.  She  disguised  it  from  her  own  heart,  yet 
quite  honestly.  She  loved  him  and  gave  him  all  she  had  to 
give  for  ever  and  ever:  even  though  he  did  not  ask  nor 
need  her  love.  This  she  grasped.  Her  role  must  be  one  of 
selfless  sacrifice.  But  the  deliberate  purpose  behind  her 
real  decision  she  disguised  from  herself  with  complete  suc- 
cess. It  lay  there  none  the  less,  strong,  vital,  very  simple. 
She  would  teach  him  love. 

Alone  of  all  men,  Edward  Fillery  could  have  drawn  up 
this  motive  from  its  inmost  hiding  place  in  her  deep  sub- 
conscious being,  and  have  made  it  clear  to  her.  Dr.  Fillery, 
had  he  been  present,  would  have  discerned  it  in  her,  as, 
indeed,  he  did  discern  it  later.  He  had,  for  that  matter, 
already  felt  its  prophecy  with  a  sinking  heart  when  he 
planned  bringing  them  together:  Iraida  might  suffer  at 
LeVallon's  hands. 

But  Fillery,  apparently,  was  not  present,  and  Nayan 
Khilkoff  remained  unaware  of  self-deception.  LeVallon 
"needs  your  care  and  sympathy;  you  can  help  him,"  she 
remembered.  This  she  believed,  and  Love  did  the  rest. 

So  intricate,  so  complex  were  the  emotions  in  her  that 
she  realized  one  thing  only — she  must  give  all  without 
thought  of  self.  "When  half  gods  go  the  gods  arrive"  sang 
in  her  heart.  She  was  a  woman,  one  of  a  mighty  and  in- 
numerable multitude,  and  collective  instinct  urged  her 
irresistibly.  But  it  hid  at  the  same  time  with  lovely  care 
the  imperishable  desire  and  intention  that  the  arriving  god 
should — must — love  her  in  return. 

The  youth  stood  facing  her  while  this  tumult  surged 
within  her  heart  and  mind.  Outwardly  calm,  she  still  gazed 
into  the  clear  blue  eyes  that  shone  with  moisture  as  he 
repeated,  half  to  himself  and  half  to  her: 

"We  are  in  exile  here;  we  suffer.    We  have  forgotten." 

His  hands  were  stretched  towards  her,  and  she  took  them 
in  her  own  and  held  them  a  moment. 

"But  you  and  I,"  he  went  on,  "you  and  I  and  Fillery — 
shall  remember  again — soon.  We  shall  know  why  we  are 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  305 

here.  We  shall  do  our  happy  work  together  here.  We  shall 
then  return — escape." 

His  deep  tones  filled  the  air.  At  the  sound  of  the  other 
name  a  breath  of  sadness,  of  disappointment,  touched  her 
coldly.  The  familiar  name  had  faded.  It  was,  as  always, 
dear.  But  its  potency  had  dimmed.  .  .  . 

The  sun  was  down  and  a  soft  dusk  covered  all.  A  faint 
wind  rustled  in  the  garden  trees  through  the  open  window. 

"Fillery,"  she  murmured,  "Edward  Fillery! He 

loved  me.  He  has  loved  me  always." 

The  little  words — they  sounded  little  for  the  first  time — 
she  uttered  almost  in  a  whisper  that  went  lost  against  the 
figure  of  LeVallon  towering  above  her  through  the  twilight. 

"We  are  together,"  his  great  voice  caught  her  whisper  in 
the  immense  vibration,  drowning  it.  "The  love  of  our 
happy  impersonal  service  brings  us  all  together.  We  have 
forgotten,  but  we  shall  remember  soon." 

It  seemed  to  her  that  he  shone  now  in  the  dusky  air. 
Light  came  about  his  face  and  shoulders.  An  immense 
vitality  poured  into  her  through  his  hands.  The  sense  of 
strange  kinship  was  overpowering.  She  felt,  though  not 
in  terms  of  size  or  physical  strength,  a  pigmy  before  him, 
while  yet  another  thing  rose  in  gigantic  and  limitless  glory 
as  from  some  inner  heart  he  quickened  in  her.  This  sense 
of  exaltation,  of  delirious  joy  that  tempted  sweetly,  came 
upon  her.  He  must  love  her,  need  her  in  the  end.  .  .  . 

"Julian,"  she  murmured  softly,  drawn  irresistibly  closer. 
"The  gods  have  brought  you  to  me."  Her  feet  went  nearer 
of  their  own  accord,  but  there  was  no  movement,  no 
answering  pressure,  in  the  hands  she  held.  "You  shall 
never  know  loneliness  again,  never  while  I  am  here.  The 
gods — your  gods — have  brought  us  together." 

"Our  gods,"  she  heard  his  answer,  "are  the  same."  The 
words  trembled  against  her  actual  breast,  so  close  she  was 
now  leaning  against  him.  "Even  if  lost,  it  is  they  who  sent 
us  here.  I  know  their  messengers " 


306  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

He  broke  off,  standing  back  from  her,  dropping  her 
hands,  or,  rather,  drawing  his  own  away. 

"Hark!"  he  cried.  The  voice  deep  and  full,  yet  without 
loudness,  thrilled  her.  She  watched  him  with  terror  and 
amazement,  as  he  turned  to  the  open  window,  throwing  his 
arms  out  suddenly  to  the  darkening  sky  against  which  the 
trees  loomed  still  and  shapeless.  His  figure  was  wrapped 
in  a  faint  radiance  as  of  silvery  moonlight.  She  was  aware 
of  heat  about  her,  a  comforting,  inspiring  warmth  that  per- 
vaded her  whole  being,  as  from  within.  The  same  moment 
the  bulk  of  the  big  tree  shook  and  trembled,  and  a  steady 
wind  came  pouring  into  the  room.  It  seemed  to  her  the 
wind,  the  heat,  poured  through  that  tree. 

And  the  inner  heart  in  her  grew  clear  an  instant.  This 
wind,  this  heat,  increased  her  being  marvellously.  The 
exaltation  in  her  swept  out  and  free.  She  saw  him,  dropped 
from  alien  skies  upon  the  little  teeming  earth.  The  sense 
of  his  remoteness  from  the  life  about  them,  of  her  own 
remoteness  too,  flashed  over  her  like  wind  and  fire.  An 
immense  ideal  blazed,  then  vanished.  It  flamed  beyond  her 
grasp.  It  beckoned  with  imperishable  loveliness,  then  faded 
instantly.  Wind  caught  it  up  once  more.  With  the  fire  an 
overpowering  joy  rose  in  her. 

"Julian!"  she  cried  aloud.     "Son  of  Wind  and  Fire!" 

At  the  words,  which  had  come  to  her  instinctively,  he 
turned  with  a  sudden  gesture  she  could  not  quite  interpret, 
while  there  broke  upon  his  face  a  smile,  strange  and  lovely, 
that  caught  up  the  effect  of  light  about  him  and  seemed  to 
focus  in  his  brilliant  eyes.  His  happiness  was  beyond  all 
question,  his  admiration,  wonder  too ;  yet  the  quality  she 
chiefly  looked  and  expected — was  not  there. 

She  chilled.  The  joy,  she  was  acutely  conscious,  was 
not  a  personal  joy. 

"You,"  he  said  gently,  happily,  emphasizing  the  word, 
"you  are  not  pitiful,"  and  the  rustle  of  the  shaking  trees 
outside  the  window  merged  their  voice  in  his  and  carried 
it  outward  into  space.  It  was  as  if  the  wind  itself  had 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  307 

spoken.  Across  the  garden  dusk  there  shot  a  sudden  effect 
of  light,  as  though  a  flame  had  flickered  somewhere  in  the 
sky,  then  passed  back  into  the  growing  night  There  was  a 
scent  of  flowers  in  the  air.  "You,"  he  cried,  with  an  exulta- 
tion that  carried  her  again  beyond  herself.  "You  are  not 
pitiful." 

"Julian !"  she  stammered,  longing  for  his  arms.  She 

half  drew  away.  The  blood  flowed  down  and  back  in  her. 
"Not  pitiful!"  she  repeated  faintly. 

For  it  was  to  her  suddenly  as  if  that  sighing  wind  that 
entered  the  room  from  the  outer  sky  had  borne  him  away 
from  her.  That  wind  was  a  messenger.  It  came  from  that 
distant  state,  that  other  region  where  he  belonged,  a  state,  a 
region  compared  to  which  the  beings  of  earth  were  trump- 
ery and  tinsel-dressed.  It  came  to  remind  him  of  his  home 
and  origin.  The  little  earth,  the  myriad  confused  figures 
struggling  together  on  its  surface,  he  saw  as  "pitiful." 
From  that  window  in  the  sky  whence  he  looked  down  he 
watched  them.  .  .  . ! 

She  knew  the  feeling  in  him,  knew  it,  because  some  part 
of  her,  though  faint  and  deeply  hidden,  was  akin.  Yet  she 
was  not  wholly  "pitiful."  He  had  discerned  in  her  this 
faint,  hidden  strain  of  vaster  life,  had  stirred  and  strength- 
ened it  by  his  words,  his  presence.  Yet  it  was  not  vital 
enough  in  her  to  stand  alone.  When  wind  and  fire,  his 
elements,  breathed  forth  from  it,  she  was  afraid. 

"You  are  not  pitiful,"  he  had  said,  yet  pitiful,  for  all  that, 
she  knew  herself  to  be.  On  that  breath  of  sighing  wind  he 
swept  away  from  her,  far,  far  away  where,  as  yet,  she  could 
not  follow.  And  her  dream  of  personal  love  swept  with  it. 
Some  ineffable  hint  of  a  divine,  impersonal  glory  she  had 
known  went  with  him  from  her  heart.  The  personal  was 
too  strong  in  her.  It  was  human  love  she  desired  both  to 
give  and  ask. 

Unspoken  words  flared  through  her  heart  and  being: 
"Julian,  you  have  no  soul,  no  human  soul.  But  I  will  give 
you  one,  for  I  will  teach  you  love " 


308  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

He  turned  upon  her  like  a  hurricane  of  windy  fire. 

"Soul !"  he  cried,  catching  the  word  out  of  her  naked 
heart.  "Oh,  be  not  caught  with  that  pitiful  delusion.  It  is 
this  idea  of  soul  that  binds  you  hopelessly  to  selfish  ends 
and  broken  purposes.  This  thing  you  call  soul  is  but  the 
dream  of  human  vanity  and  egoism.  It  is  worse  than  love. 
Both  bind  you  endlessly  to  limited  desires  and  blind  ambi- 
tions. They  are  of  children." 

He  rose,  like  some  pillar  of  whirling  flame  and  wind, 
beside  her. 

"Come  out  with  me,"  he  cried,  "come  back!  You  teach 
me  to  remember!  Our  elemental  home  calls  sweetly  to 
us,  our  elemental  service  waits.  We  belong  to  those  vast 
Powers.  They  are  eternal.  They  know  no  binding  and 
they  have  no  death.  Their  only  law  is  service,  that  mighty 
service  which  builds  up  the  universe.  The  stars  are  with 
us,  the  nebulae  and  the  central  fires  are  their  throne  and 
altar.  The  soul  you  dream  of  in  your  little  circle  is  but  an 
idle  dream  of  the  Race  that  ties  your  feet  lest  you  should 
fly  and  soar.  The  personal  has  bandaged  all  your  eyes. 
Nayan,  come  back  with  me.  You  once  worked  with  me 
there — you,  I  and  Fillery  together." 

His  voice,  though  low,  had  that  which  was  terrific  in  it. 
The  volume  of  its  sound  appalled  her.  Its  low  vibrations 
shook  her  heart. 

"Soul,"  she  said  very  softly,  courage  sure  in  her,  but  tears 
close  in  her  burning  eyes,  "is  my  only  hope.  I  live  for  it. 
I  am  ready  to  die  for  it.  It  is  my  life !" 

He  gazed  at  her  a  moment  with  a  tenderness  and  sympathy 
she  hardly  understood,  for  their  origin  lay  hidden  beyond 
her  comprehension.  She  knew  one  thing  only — that  he 
looked  adorable  and  glorious,  a  being  brought  by  the  wise 
powers  of  life,  whatever  these  might  be,  into  the  keeping 
of  her  love  and  care.  The  mother  and  the  woman  merged 
in  her.  His  redemption  lay  within  her  gentle  hands,  if  it 
lay  at  the  same  time  upon  an  altar  that  was  her  awful  sacri- 
fice. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  309 

"Son  of  wind  and  fire !"  she  cried,  though  emotion  made 
her  voice  dwindle  to  a  breathless  whisper.  "You  called  to 
my  love,  yet  my  love  is  personal.  I  have  nothing  else  to 
give  you.  Julian,  come  back !  O  stay  with  me.  Your  wind 
and  fire  frighten,  for  they  take  you  away.  Service  I  know, 
but  your  service — O  what  is  it?  For  it  leaves  the  bed,  the 
hearthstone  cold " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  wondering  suddenly  at  her  own 
words.  What  was  this  rhythm  that  had  caught  her  mind 
and  heart  into  an  unknown,  a  daring  form  of  speech? 

But  the  wind  ran  again  through  the  open  window  flutter- 
ing the  curtains  and  the  skirts  about  her  feet.  It  sighed 
and  whispered.  It  was  no  earthly  wind.  She  saw  him 
once  again  go  from  her  on  its  quiet  wings.  He  left  her 
side,  he  left  her  heart.  And  an  icy  realization  of  his  loneli- 
ness, his  exile,  stirred  in  her.  .  .  .  For  a  moment,  as  she 
looked  up  into  his  shining  face  silhouetted  in  the  dusk 
against  the  window,  there  rose  tumultuously  in  her  that 
maternal  feeling  which  had  held  all  men  safely  at  a  distance 
hitherto.  Like  a  wave,  it  mastered  her.  She  longed  to 
take  him  in  her  arms,  to  shield  him  from  a  world  that  was 
not  his,  to  bless  and  comfort  him  with  all  she  had  to  give, 
to  have  the  right  to  brush  that  wondrous  hair,  to  open 
those  lids  at  dawn  and  close  them  with  a  kiss  at  night. 
This  ancient  passion  rose  in  her,  bringing,  though  she  did 
not  recognize  it,  the  great  woman  in  its  train.  She  walked 
up  to  him  with  both  hands  outstretched : 

"All  my  nights,"  she  said,  with  no  reddening  of  the 
cheek,  "are  as  our  wedding  night !" 

He  heard,  he  saw,  but  the  words  held  no  meaning  for 
him. 

"Julian!  Stay  with  me — stay  here!"  She  put  her  arms 
about  him. 

"And  forget !"  he  cried,  an  inexpressible  longing  in 

his  voice.  He  bent,  none  the  less,  beneath  the  pressure  of 
her  clinging  arms ;  he  lowered  his  face  to  hers. 

"I  will  teach  you  love,"  she  murmured,  her  cheek  against 


310  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

his  own.  "You  do  not  know  how  sweet,  how  wonderful 
it  is.  All  your  strange  wisdom  you  shall  show  me,  and  I 
will  learn  willingly,  if  only  I  may  teach  you — love." 

"You  would  teach  me  to  forget,"  he  said  in  a  voice  of 
curious  pain,  "just  as  you — are  forgetting  now." 

He  gently  unclasped  her  hands  from  about  his  neck,  and 
went  over  to  the  open  window,  while  she  sank  into  a  chair, 
watching  him.  She  again  heard  the  wind,  but  again  no 
common,  earthly  wind,  go  singing  past  the  walls. 

"But  /  will  teach  you  to  remember,"  he  said,  his  great 
figure  half  turning  towards  her  again,  his  voice  sounding 
as  though  it  were  in  that  sighing  breath  of  wind  that  passed 
and  died  away  into  the  silence  of  the  sky. 

The  strange  difficulty,  the  immensity,  of  her  self- 
appointed  task,  grew  suddenly  crystal  clear  in  her  mind. 
Amid  the  whirling,  aching  pain  and  yearning  that  she  felt 
it  stood  forth  sharp  and  definite.  It  was  imperious.  She 
loved,  and  she  must  teach  him  love.  This  was  the  one 
thing  needful  in  his  case.  Her  own  deep,  selfless  heart 
would  guide  her. 

There  was  pain  in  her,  but  there  was  no  fear.  Above 
the  conventions  she  felt  herself,  naked  and  unashamed. 
The  sense  of  a  new  immense  liberty  he  had  brought  lifted 
her  into  a  region  where  she  could  be  natural  without  offence. 
He  had  flung  wide  the  gates  of  life,  setting  free  those 
strange,  ultimate  powers  which  had  lain  hidden  and  un- 
realized hitherto,  and  with  them  was  quickened,  too,  that 
mysterious  and  awful  hint  which,  beckoning  ever  towards 
some  vaster  life,  had  made  the  world  as  she  found  it  un- 
satisfactory, pale,  of  meagre  value. 

As  the  strange  drift  of  wind  passed  off  into  the  sky, 
she  moved  across  the  room  and  stood  beside  him,  its  dying 
chant  still  humming  in  her  ears.  That  song  of  the  wind, 
she  understood,  was  symbolic  of  what  she  had  to  fight,  for 
his  being,  though  linked  to  a  divine  service  she  could  not 
understand,  lay  in  Nature  and  apart  from  human  things : 

"Think,   Julian,"   she  murmured,   her    face   against   his 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  311 

shoulder  so  that  the  sweet  perfume  as  of  flowers  he  exhaled 
came  over  her  intoxicatingly,  "think  what  we  could  do 
together  for  the  world — for  all  these  little  striving  ignorant 
troubled  people  in  it — for  everybody!  You  and  I  together 
working,  helping,  lifting  them  all  up !" 

He  made  no  movement,  and  she  took  his  great  arm  and 
drew  it  round  her  neck,  placing  the  hand  against  her  cheek. 
He  looked  down  at  her  then,  his  eyes  peering  into  her  face. 

"That,"  he  said  in  a  deep,  gentle  voice  that  vibrated 
through  her  whole  body,  "yes,  that  we  will  do.  It  is  the 
service — the  service  of  our  gods.  It  is  why  I  called  you. 
From  the  first  I  saw  it  in  you,  and  in " 

Before  he  could  speak  the  name  she  kissed  his  lips,  pulling 
his  head  lower  in  order  to  reach  them:  "Think,  Julian," 
she  whispered,  his  eyes  so  close  to  hers  that  they  seemed 
to  burn  them,  "think  what  our  child  might  be!" 

The  wind  came  back  across  the  tossing  trees  with  a  rush 
of  singing.  Her  hair  fluttered  across  their  two  faces,  as 
it  entered  the  room,  drove  round  the  inner  walls,  then,  with 
a  cry,  flew  out  again  into  the  empty  sky.  She  felt  as  if 
the  wind  had  answered  her,  for  other  answer  there  came 
none.  Far  away  in  the  spaces  of  that  darkening  sky  the 
wind  rushed  sailing,  sailing  with  its  impersonal  song  of 
power  and  of  triumph.  .  .  .  She  did  not  remember  any 
further  spoken  words.  She  remembered  only,  as  she  went 
homewards  down  the  street,  that  Julian  had  opened  th£ 
door  upon  some  unspoken  understanding  that  she  had  lost 
him  because  she  dared  not  follow  recklessly  where  he  led, 
and  that  the  steady  draught,  it  seemed,  had  driven  forcibly 
behind  her — as  though  the  wind  had  blown  her  out. 

It  was  only  much  later  she  realized  that  the  figure  who 
had  then  overtaken  her,  supported,  comforted  with  kind 
ordinary  words  she  hardly  understood  at  the  moment  and 
yet  vaguely  /welcomed,  finally  leaving  her  at  the  door  of  her 
father's  house  in  Chelsea,  was  the  figure  of  Edward  Fillery. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A 5  upon  a  former  occasion  some  twenty-four  hours  be- 
fore, "N.  H."  seemed  hardly  aware  that  his  visitor 
had  left,  though  this  time  there  was  the  vital  difference — 
that  what  was  of  value  had  not  gone  at  all.  The  essence 
of  the  girl,  it  seemed,  was  still  with  him.  It  remained.  The 
physical  presence  was  to  him  apparently  the  least  of  all. 

He  returned  to  his  place  at  the  open  window  of  the 
darkening  room,  while  night,  with  her  cooler  airs,  passed 
over  tne  world  on  tiptoe.  He  drew  deep  breaths,  opened 
his  arms,  and  seemed  to  shake  himself,  as  though  glad  to 
be  free  of  recent  little  awkward  and  unnatural  gestures  that 
had  irked  him.  There  was  happiness  in  his  face.  "She 
is  a  builder,  though  she  has  forgotten,"  ran  his  thought  with 
pleasure,  "and  I  can  work  with  her.  Like  Fillery,  she 
builds  up,  constructs;  we  are  all  three  in  the  same  service, 
and  the  gods  are  glad.  I  love  her  .  .  .  yes  .  .  .  but  she" — 
his  thoughts  grew  troubled  and  confused — "she  speaks  of 
another  love  that  is  a  tight  and  binding  little  thing  .  .  .  that 
catches  and  confines.  It  is  for  one  person  only  .  .  .  one 
person  for  one  other.  .  .  .  For  two  .  .  .  only  for  two  per- 
sons !  .  .  .  What  is  its  meaning  then  ?" 

Of  her  words  and  acts  he  had  understood  evidently  a 
small  part  only;  much  that  she  had  said  and  done  he  had 
not  comprehended,  although  in  it  somewhere  there  had  cer- 
tainly lain  a  sweet,  faint,  troubling  pleasure  that  was  new 
to  him. 

His  thought  wavered,  nickered  out  and  vanished.  For 
a  long  time  he  leaned  against  the  window  with  his  images, 
thinking  with  his  heart,  for  when  alone  and  not  stirred  by 

312 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  313 

the  thinking  of  others  close  to  him,  he  became  of  a  curious 
childlike  innocence,  knowing  nothing.  His  "thinking"  with 
others  present  seemed  but  a  reflection  of  their  thinking. 
The  way  he  caught  up  the  racial  thinking,  appearing  swiftly 
intelligent  at  the  time  (as  with  Fillery's  mind),  passed  the 
instant  he  was  alone.  He  became  open,  then,  to  bigger 
rhythms  that  the  little  busy  thinkers  checked  and  interrupted. 
But  this  greater  flow  of  images,  of  rhythms,  this  thinking 
with  the  heart — what  was  it,  and  with  what  things  did  it 
deal  ?  He  did  not  know.  He  had  forgotten.  To  his  present 
brain  it  was  alien.  He  grasped  only  that  it  was  concerned 
with  the  rhythms  of  fire  and  wind  apparently,  though  hardly, 
perhaps,  of  that  crude  form  in  which  men  know  them,  but 
of  an  inner,  subtler,  more  vital  heat  and  air  which  lie  in 
and  behind  all  forms  and  help  to  shape  them — and  of  In- 
telligences which  use  these  as  their  vehicles,  their  instru- 
ments, their  bodies. 

In  his  "images"  he  was  aware  of  these  Intelligences,  per- 
ceived them  with  his  entire  being,  shared  their  activities 
and  nature :  behind  all  so-called  forms  and  shapes,  whether 
of  people,  flowers,  minerals,  of  insects  or  of  stars,  of  a 
bird,  a  butterfly  or  a  nebula,  but  also  of  those  mental  shapes 
which  are  born  of  thought  and  mood  and  heart — this  host 
of  Intelligences,  great  and  small,  all  delving  together,  build- 
ing, constructing,  involved  in  a  vast  impersonal  service  which 
was  deathless.  This  seemed  the  mighty  call  that  thundered 
through  him,  fire  and  wind  merely  the  agencies  with  which 
he,  in  particular,  knew  instinctively  his  duties  lay. 

For  his  work,  these  images  taught  him,  was  to  increase 
life  by  making  the  "body"  it  used  as  perfect  as  he  could. 
The  more  perfect  the  form,  the  instrument,  the  greater 
the  power  manifesting  through  it.  A  poor,  imperfect  form 
stopped  the  flow  of  this  manifesting  life,  as  though  a  cur- 
rent were  held  up  and  delayed.  For  instance,  his  own  form, 
his  present  body,  now  irked,  delayed  and  hampered  him, 
although  he  knew  not  how  or  why  or  whence  he  had  come 
to  be  using  it  at  this  moment  on  the  earth.  The  instinctive 


314  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

desire  to  escape  from  it  lay  in  him,  and  also  the  instinctive 
recognition  that  two  others,  similarly  caught  and  imprisoned, 
must  escape  with  him.  .  .  . 

The  images,  the  rhythms,  poured  through  him  in  a  mighty 
flood,  as  he  leaned  by  the  open  window,  his  great  figure, 
his  whole  nature  too,  merging  in  the  space,  the  wind,  the 
darkness  of  the  soft-moving  night  beyond.  .  .  .  Yet  dark- 
ness troubled  him  too;  it  always  seemed  unfamiliar,  new, 
something  he  had  never  been  accustomed  to.  In  darkness 
he  became  quiet,  very  gentle,  feeling  his  way,  as  it  were, 
uneasily. 

He  was  aware,  however,  that  Fillery  was  near,  though 
not,  perhaps,  that  he  was  actually  in  the  room,  seated  some- 
where among  the  shadows,  watching  him.  He  felt  him  close 
in  the  same  way  he  felt  the  girl  still  close,  whether  distance 
between  them  in  space  was  actually  great  or  small.  The 
essential  in  all  three  was  similar,  their  yearnings,  hopes, 
intentions,  purposes  were  akin;  their  longing  for  some 
service,  immense,  satisfying,  it  seemed,  connected  them.  The 
voice,  however,  did  not  startle  when  it  sounded  behind  him 
from  an  apparently  empty  room: 

"The  love  she  spoke  of  you  do  not  understand,  of  course. 
Perhaps  you  do  not  need  it.  .  .  ." 

The  voice,  as  well  as  the  feeling  that  lay  behind,  hardly 
disturbed  the  images  and  rhythms  in  their  wondrous  flow. 
Rather,  they  seemed  a  part  of  them.  "N.  H."  turned.  He 
saw  Dr.  Fillery  distinctly,  sitting  motionless  among  the 
shadows  by  the  wall. 

"It  is,  for  you,  a  new  relationship,  and  seems  small, 
cramping  and  unnecessary " 

"What  is  it?"  "N.  H."  asked.  "What  is  this  love  she 
seeks  to  hold  me  with,  saying  that  I  need  it  ?  Dear  Fillery," 
he  added,  moving  nearer,  "will  you  tell  me  what  it  is?  I 
found  it  sweet  and  pleasant,  yet  I  fear  it." 

"It  is,"  was  the  reply,  "in  its  best  form,  the  highest  quality 
we  know " 

"Ah !   I  felt  the  fire  in  it,"  interrupted  "N.  H."  smiling. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  315 

"I  smelt  the  flowers."    His  smile  seemed  faintly  luminous 
across  the  gloom. 

"Because  it  was  the  best/'  replied  the  other  gently.  "In 
its  best  form  it  means,  sometimes,  the  complete  sacrifice  of 
one  being  for  the  welfare  of  another.  There  is  no  self  in 
it  at  all."  He  felt  the  eyes  of  his  companion  fixed  upon 
him  in  the  darkness  of  the  quiet  room ;  he  felt  likewise  that 
he  was  bewildered  and  perplexed.  "As,  for  instance,  the 
mother  for  her  child,"  he  went  on.  "That  is  the  purest  form 
of  it  we  know." 

"One  being  feels  it  for  one  other  only,"  "N.  H."  repeated 
apparently  ignoring  the  reference  to  maternal  love.  "Each 
wants  the  other  for  himself  alone!  Each  lives  for  the  other 
only,  the  rest  excluded!  It  is  always  two  and  two.  Is 
that  what  she  means?" 

"She  would  not  like  it  if  you  had  the  same  feeling  for 
another — woman,"  Fillery  explained.  "She  would  feel 
jealousy — which  means  she  would  grudge  sharing  you  with 
another.  She  would  resent  it,  afraid  of  losing  you." 

"Two  and  two,  and  two  and  two,"  the  words  floated 
through  the  shadows.  The  ideal  seemed  to  shock  and  hurt 
him;  he  could  not  understand  it.  "She  asks  for  the  whole 
of  me — all  to  herself.  It  is  lower  than  insects,  flowers  even. 
It  is  against  Nature.  So  small,  so  separate " 

"But  Nature,"  interrupted  Dr.  Fillery,  after  an  interval 
of  silence  between  them,  "is  not  concerned  with  what  we 
call  love.  She  is  indifferent  to  it.  Her  purpose  is  merely 
the  continuance  of  the  Race,  and  she  accomplishes  this  by 
making  men  and  women  attractive  to  one  another.  This, 
too,"  he  explained,  "we  call  love,  though  it  is  love  in  its 
weakest,  least  enduring  form." 

"That,"  replied  "N.  H.,"  "I  know  and  understand.  She 
builds  the  best  form  she  can." 

"And  once  the  form  is  built,"  agreed  the  other,  "and 
Nature's  aim  fulfilled,  this  kind  of  love  usually  fades  out 
and  dies.  It  is  a  physical  thing  entirely,  like  the  two  atoms 
we  read  about  together  a  few  days  ago  which  rush  together 


316  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

automatically  to  produce  a  third  thing."  He  lowered  his 
voice  suddenly.  "There  was  a  great  teacher  once,"  he  went 
on,  "who  told  us  that  we  should  love  everybody,  everybody, 
and  that  in  the  real  life  there  was  no  marriage,  as  we  call 
it,  nor  giving  in  marriage." 

It  seemed  that,  as  he  said  the  words,  the  darkness  lifted, 
and  a  faint  perfume  of  flowers  floated  through  the  air. 

"N.  H."  made  no  comment  or  reply.    He  sat  still,  listening. 

"I  love  her,"  he  whispered  suddenly.  "I  love  her  in  that 
way — because  I  want  everybody  else  to  love  her  too — as 
I  do,  and  as  you  do.  But  I  do  not  want  her  for  myself 
alone.  Do  you?  You  do  not,  of  course.  I  feel  you  are 
as  I  am.  You  are  happy  that  I  love  her." 

"There  is  morality,"  said  Fillery  presently  in  a  low  voice, 
glad  at  that  moment  of  the  darkness.  "There  is  what  we 
call  morality." 

"Tell  me,  dear  Fillery,  what  that  is.  Is  it  bigger  than 
your  'love'?" 

Dr.  Fillery  explained  briefly,  while  his  companion  listened 
intently,  making  no  comment.  It  was  evidently  as  strange 
and  new  to  him  as  human  love.  "We  have  invented  it," 
he  added  at  the  end,  "to  protect  ourselves,  our  mothers,  our 
families,  our  children.  It  is,  you  see,  a  set  of  rules  devised 
for  the  welfare  of  the  Race.  For  though  a  few  among  us 
do  not  need  such  rules,  the  majority  do.  It  is,  in  a  word, 
the  acknowledgment  of  the  rights  of  others." 

"It  had  to  be  invented !"  exclaimed  "N.  H.,"  with  a  sigh 
that  seemed  to  trouble  the  darkness  as  with  the  sadness 
of  something  he  could  scarcely  believe.  "And  these  rules 
are  needed  still !  Is  the  Race  at  that  stage  only  ?  It  does 
not  move,  then  ?" 

Into  the  atmosphere,  as  the  low-spoken  words  were 
audible,  stole  again  that  mysterious  sense  of  the  insignif- 
icance of  earth  and  all  its  manifold  activities,  human  and 
otherwise,  and  with  it,  too,  a  remarkable  breath  of  some 
larger  reality,  starry-bright,  that  lay  shining  just  beyond  all 
known  horizons.  Fillery  shivered  in  spite  of  himself.  It 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  317 

seemed  to  him  for  an  instant  that  the  great  figure  looming 
opposite  through  the  darkness  extended,  spread,  gathering 
into  its  increased  proportions  the  sky,  the  trees,  the  darkened 
space  outside;  that  it  no  longer  sat  there  quite  alone.  He 
recalled  his  colleague's  startling  admission — the  touch  of 
panic  terror. 

"Slowly,  if  at  all,"  he  said  louder,  though  wondering  why 
he  raised  his  voice.  "Yet  there  is  some  progress." 

He  had  the  feeling  it  would  be  better  to  turn  on  the  light, 
as  though  this  conversation  and  the  strange  sensations  it 
produced  in  him  would  be  impossible  in  a  full  blaze.  He 
made  a  movement,  indeed,  to  find  the  switch.  It  was  the 
sound  of  his  companion's  voice  that  made  him  pause,  for 
the  words  came  at  him  as  though  a  wave  of  heat  moved 
through  the  air.  He  knew  intuitively  that  the  other's  intense 
inner  activity  had  increased.  He  let  his  hand  drop.  He 
listened.  Their  thoughts,  he  was  convinced,  had  mingled 
and  been  mutually  shared  again.  There  was  a  faint  sound 
like  music  behind  it. 

"We  have  worked  such  a  little  time  as  yet,"  fell  the  words 
into  the  silence.  "If  only — oh!  if  only  I  could  remember 
more !" 

"A  little  time!"  thought  Fillery  to  himself,  knowing  that 
the  other  meant  the  millions  of  years  Nature  had  used  to 
evoke  her  myriad  forms.  "Try  to  remember,"  he  added 
in  a  whisper. 

"What  I  do  remember,  I  cannot  even  tell,"  was  the  reply, 
the  voice  strangely  deepening.  "No  words  come  to  me." 
He  paused  a  moment,  then  went  on:  "I  am  of  the  first, 
the  oldest.  I  know  that.  The  earth  was  hot  and  burning — 
burning,  burning  still.  It  was  soft  with  heat  when  I  was 
summoned  from — from  other  work  just  completed.  With 
a  vast  host  I  came.  Our  Service  summoned  us.  We  began 
at  the  beginning.  I  am  of  the  oldest.  The  earth  was  still 
hot — burning,  burning " 

The  voice  failed  suddenly. 

"I  cannot  remember.     Dear  Fillery,  I  cannot  remember. 


318  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

It  hurts  me.  My  head  pains.  Our  work — our  service — yes, 
there  is  progress.  The  ages,  as  you  call  them — but  it  is 

such  a  little  time  as  yet "  The  voice  trailed  off,  the 

figure  lost  its  suggestion  of  sudden  vastness,  the  darkness 
emptied.  "I  am  of  the  oldest — that  I  remember  only.  .  .  ." 
It  ceased  as  though  it  drifted  out  upon  the  passing  wind 
outside. 

"Then  you  have  been  working,"  said  Fillery,  his  voice 
still  almost  a  whisper,  "you  and  your  great  host,  for  thou- 
sands of  years — in  the  service  of  this  planet "  He  broke 

off,  unable  to  find  his  words,  it  seemed. 

"Since  the  beginning,"  came  the  steady  answer.  "Years 
I  do  not  know.  Since  the  beginning.  Yet  we  have  only 
just  begun — oh !"  he  cried,  "I  cannot  remember !  It  is  im- 
possible! It  all  goes  lost  among  my  words,  and  in  this 
darkness  I  am  confused  and  entangled  with  your  own 
little  thinking.  I  suffer  with  it."  Then  suddenly:  "My 
eyes  are  hot  and  wet,  dear  Fillery.  What  happens  to  them  ?" 
He  stood  up,  putting  both  hands  to  his  face.  Fillery  stood 
up  too.  He  trembled. 

"Don't  try,"  he  said  soothingly ;  "do  not  try  to  remember 
any  more.  It  will  come  back  to  you  soon,  but  it  won't  come 
back  by  any  deliberate  effort." 

He  comforted  him  as  best  he  could,  realizing  that  the 
curious  dialogue  had  lasted  long  enough.  But  he  did  not 
produce  a  disconcerting  blaze  by  turning  the  light  on  sud- 
denly ;  he  led  his  companion  gently  to  the  door,  so  that  the 
darkness  might  pass  more  gradually.  The  lights  in  the 
corridor  were  shaded  and  inoffensive.  It  was  only  in  the 
bedroom  that  he  noticed  the  bright  tears,  as  "N.  H.,"  ex- 
amining them  with  curious  interest  in  the  mirror,  exclaimed 
more  to  himself  than  to  Fillery:  "She  had  them  too.  I 
saw  them  in  her  eyes  when  she  spoke  to  me  of  love,  the 
love  she  will  teach  me  because  she  said  I  needed  it." 

"Tears,"  said  Filleryt  his  voice  shaking.  "They  come 
from  feeling  pain." 

"It  is  a  little  thing,"  returned  "N.  H.,"  smiling  at  himself, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  319 

then  turning  to  his  friend,  his  great  blue  eyes  shining  won- 
derfully through  their  moisture.  "Then  she  felt  what  I 
felt — we  felt  together.  When  she  comes  to-morrow  I  will 
show  her  these  tears  and  she  will  be  glad  I  love.  And  she 
will  bring  tears  of  her  own,  and  you  will  have  some  too, 
and  we  shall  all  love  together.  It  is  not  difficult,  is  it?" 

"Not  very,"  agreed  Fillery,  smiling  in  his  turn ;  "it  is  not 
very  difficult."  He  was  again  trembling. 

"She  will  be  happy  that  we  all  love." 

"I — hope  so." 

It  was  curious  how  easily  tears  came  to  the  eyes  of 
this  strange  being,  and  for  causes  so  different  that  they 
were  not  easy  to  explain.  He  did  not  cry;  it  was  merely 
that  the  hot  tears  welled  up. 

Even  with  Devonham  once  it  happened  too.  The  lesson 
in  natural  history  was  over.  Devonham  had  just  sketched 
the  outline  of  the  various  kingdoms,  with  the  animal  king- 
dom and  man's  position  in  it,  according  to  present  evolu- 
tionary knowledge,  and  had  then  said  something  about  the 
earth's  place  in  the  solar  system,  and  the  probable  relation 
of  this  system  to  the  universe  at  large — an  admirable  bird's- 
eye  view,  as  it  were,  without  a  hint  of  speculative  imagina- 
tion in  it  anywhere — when  "N.  H.,"  after  intent  listening 
in  irresponsive  silence,  asked  abruptly: 

"What  does  it  believe?"  Then,  as  Devonham  stared  at 
him,  a  little  puzzled  at  first,  he  repeated :  "That  is  what 
the  Race  knows.  But  what  does  it  believe?" 

"Believe,"  said  Devonham,  "believe.  Ah !  you  mean  what 
is  its  religion,  its  faith,  its  speculations!" — and  proceeded 
to  give  the  briefest  possible  answer  he  felt  consistent  with 
his  duty.  The  less  his  pupil's  mind  was  troubled  with 
such  matters,  the  better,  in  his  opinion. 

"And  their  God?"  the  young  man  inquired  abruptly,  as 
soon  as  the  recital  was  over.  He  had  listened  closely,  as 
he  always  did,  but  without  a  sign  of  interest,  merely  waiting 
for  the  end,  much  as  a  child  who  is  bored  by  a  poor  fairy 


320  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

tale,  yet  wishes  to  know  exactly  how  it  is  all  going  to  finish. 
"They  know  Him?"  He  leaned  forward. 

Devonham,  not  quite  liking  the  form  of  the  question, 
nor  the  more  eager  manner  accompanying  it,  hesitated  a 
moment,  thinking  perhaps  what  he  ought  to  say.  He  did 
not  want  this  mind,  now  opening,  to  be  filled  with  ideas 
that  could  be  of  no  use  to  it,  nor  help  in  its  formation; 
least  of  all  did  he  desire  it  to  be  choked  and  troubled  with 
the  dead  theology  of  man-made  notions  concerning  a  tum- 
bling personal  Deity.  Creeds,  moreover,  were  a  matter  of 
faith,  of  auto-suggestion  as  he  called  it,  being  obviously 
divorced  from  any  process  of  reason.  He  had,  nevertheless, 
a  question  to  answer  and  a  duty  to  perform.  His  hesitation 
passed  in  compromise.  He  was,  as  has  been  seen,  too 
sincere,  too  honest,  to  possess  much  sense  of  humour. 

"The  Race,"  he  said,  "or  rather  that  portion  of  it  into 
which  you  have  been  born,  believes — on  paper" — he  em- 
phasized the  qualification — "in  a  paternal  god;  but  its  real 
god,  the  god  it  worships,  is  Knowledge.  Not  a  Knowledge 
that  exists  for  its  own  sake,"  he  went  on  blandly,  "but  that 
brings  possessions,  power,  comfort  and  a  million  needless 
accessories  into  life.  That  god  it  worships,  as  you  see,  with 
energy  and  zeal.  Knowledge  and  work  that  shall  result  in 
acquisition,  in  pleasure,  that  is  the  god  of  the  Race  on  this 
side  of  the  planet  where  you  find  yourself." 

"And  the  God  on  paper?"  asked  "N.  H.,"  making  no 
comment,  though  he  had  listened  attentively  and  had  under- 
stood. "The  God  that  is  written  about  on  paper,  and  be- 
lieved in  on  paper?" 

"The  printed  account  of  this  god,"  replied  Devonham, 
"describes  an  omnipotent  and  perfect  Being  who  has  existed 
always.  He  created  the  planet  and  everything  upon  it,  but 
created  it  so  imperfectly  that  he  had  to  send  later  a  smaller 
god  to  show  how  much  better  he  might  have  created  us. 
In  doing  this,  he  offered  us  an  extremely  difficult  and 
laborious  method  of  improvement,  a  method  of  escaping 
from  his  own  mistake,  but  a  method  so  painful  and  un- 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  321 

realizable  that  it  is  contrary  to  our  very  natures — as  he 
made  them  first."  He  almost  smacked  his  lips  as  he  said  it. 

"The  big  God,  the  first  one,"  asked  "N.  H."  at  once. 
"Have  they  seen  and  known  Him  ?  Have  they  complained  ?" 

"No,"  said  Devonham,  "they  have  not.  Those  who  believe 
in  him  accept  things  as  he  made  them." 

"And  the  smaller  lesser  God — how  did  He  arrive  ?"  came 
the  odd  question. 

"He  was  born  like  you  and  me,  but  without  a  father. 
No  male  had  his  mother  ever  known." 

"He  was  recognized  as  a  god?"  The  pupil  showed  in- 
terest, but  no  emotion,  much  less  excitement. 

"By  a  few.  The  rest,  afraid  because  he  told  them  their 
possessions  were  worthless,  killed  him  quickly." 

"And  the  few?" 

"They  obeyed  his  teaching,  or  tried  to,  and  believed  that 
they  would  live  afterwards  for  ever  and  ever  in  happi- 
ness  " 

"And  the  others  ?    The  many  ?" 

"The  others,  according  to  the  few,  would  live  afterwards 
for  ever  and  ever — in  pain." 

"It  is  a  demon  story,"  said  "N.  H.,"  smiling. 

"It  is  printed,  believed,  taught,"  replied  Devonham,  "by 
an  immense  organization  to  millions  of  people " 

"Free?"  inquired  his  pupil. 

"The  teachers  are  paid,  but  very  little " 

"The  teachers  believe  it,  though?" 

"Y-yes — at  least  some  of  them — probably,"  replied  Dev- 
onham, after  brief  consideration. 

"And  the  millions — do  they  worship  this  God?" 

"They  do,  on  paper,  yes.  They  worship  the  first  big  God. 
They  go  once  or  twice  a  week  into  special  buildings,  dressed 
in  their  best  clothes  as  for  a  party,  and  pray  and  sing 
and  tell  him  he  is  wonderful  and  they  themselves  are  miser- 
able and  worthless,  and  then  ask  him  in  abject  humility  for 
all  sorts  of  things  they  want." 

"Do  they  get  them?" 


322  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"They  ask  for  different  things,  you  see.  One  wants  fine 
weather  for  his  holidays,  another  wants  rain  for  his  crops. 
The  prayers  in  which  they  ask  are  printed  by  the  Govern- 
ment." 

"They  ask  for  this  planet  only  ?" 

"This  planet  conceives  itself  alone  inhabited.  There  are 
no  other  living  beings  anywhere.  The  Earth  is  the  centre 
of  the  universe,  the  only  globe  worth  consideration." 

Although  "N.  H."  asked  these  quick  questions,  his  interest 
was  obviously  not  much  engaged,  the  first  sharp  attention 
having  passed.  Then  he  looked  fixedly  at  Devonham  and 
said,  with  a  sudden  curious  smile :  "What  you  say  is  always 
dead.  I  understand  the  sounds  you  use,  but  the  meaning 
cannot  get  into  me — inside,  I  mean.  But  I  thank  you  for 
the  sound." 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  during  which  Devonham, 
accustomed  to  strange  remarks  and  comments  from  his 
pupil,  betrayed  no  sign  of  annoyance  or  displeasure.  He 
waited  to  see  if  any  further  questions  would  be  forthcoming. 
He  was  observing  a  phenomenon ;  his  attitude  was  scientific. 

"But,  in  sending  this  lesser  God,"  resumed  "N.  H." 
presently,  "how  did  the  big  One  excuse  himself?" 

"He  didn't.  He  told  the  Race  it  was  so  worthless  that 
nothing  else  could  save  it.  He  looked  on  while  the  lesser 
God  was  killed.  He  is  very  proud  about  it,  and  claims  the 
thanks  and  worship  of  the  Race  because  of  it/' 

"The  lesser  God — poor  lesser  God !"  observed  "N.  H." 
"He  was  bigger  than  the  other."  He  thought  a  moment. 
"How  pitiful,"  he  added. 

"Much  bigger,"  agreed  Devonham,  pleased  with  his  pupil's 
acumen,  his  voice,  even  his  manner,  changing  a  little  as 
he  continued.  "For  then  came  the  wonder  of  it  all.  The 
lesser  God's  teachings  were  so  new  and  beautiful  that  the 
position  of  the  other  became  untenable.  The  Race  disowned 
him.  It  worshipped  the  lesser  one  in  his  place." 

"Tell  me,  tell  me,  please,"  said  "N.  H.,"  as  though  he 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  323 

noticed  and  understood  the  change  of  tone  at  once.  "I  listen. 
The  dear  Fillery  spoke  to  me  of  a  great  Teacher.  I  feel 
a  kind,  deep  joy  move  in  me.  Tell  me,  please." 

Again  Devonham  hesitated  a  moment,  for  he  recognized 
signs  that  made  him  ill  at  ease  a  little,  because  he  did  not 
understand  them.  Following  a  scientific  textbook  with  his 
pupil  was  well  and  good,  but  he  had  no  desire  to  trespass 
on  what  he  considered  as  Fillery's  territory.  "N.  H."  was 
his  pupil,  not  his  patient.  He  had  already  gone  too  far,  he 
realized.  After  a  moment's  reflection,  however,  he  decided 
it  was  wiser  to  let  the  talk  run  out  its  natural  course,  instead 
of  ending  it  abruptly.  He  was  as  thorough  as  he  was  sin- 
cere, and  whatever  his  own  theories  and  prejudices  might 
be  in  this  particular  case,  he  would  not  shirk  an  issue,  nor 
treat  it  with  the  smallest  dishonesty.  He  put  the  glasses 
straight  on  his  big  nose. 

"The  new  teachings,"  he  said,  "were  so  beautiful  that, 
if  faithfully  practised  by  everybody,  the  world  would  soon 
become  a  very  different  place  to  what  it  is." 

"Did  the  Race  practise  them?"  came  the  question  in  a 
voice  that  held  a  note  of  softness,  almost  of  wonder. 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"They  were  too  difficult  and  painful  and  uncomfortable. 
The  new  God,  moreover,  only  came  here  2,000  years  ago, 
whereas  men  have  existed  on  earth  for  at  least  400,000." 

"N.  H."  asked  abruptly  what  the  teachings  were,  and 
Devonham,  growing  more  and  more  uneasy  as  he  noted 
the  signs  of  increasing  intensity  and  disturbance  in  his 
pupil,  recited,  if  somewhat  imperfectly,  the  main  points  of 
the  Sermon  on  the  Mount.  As  he  did  so  "N.  H."  began 
to  murmur  quietly  to  himself,  his  eyes  grew  large  and 
bright,  his  face  lit  up,  his  whole  body  trembled.  He  began 
that  deep,  rhythmical  breathing  which  seemed  lo  affect  the 
atmosphere  about  him  so  that  his  physical  appearance  in- 
creased and  spread.  The  skin  took  on  something  of  radi- 


324  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

ance,  as  though  an  intense  inner  happiness  shone  through 
it.  Then,  suddenly,  to  Devonham's  horror,  he  began  to 
hum. 

Though  a  normal,  ordinary  sound  enough,  it  reminded 
him  of  that  other  sound  he  had  once  shared  with  Fillery, 
when  he  sat  on  the  stairs,  staring  at  a  china  bowl  filled 
with  visiting  cards,  while  the  dawn  broke  after  a  night 
of  exhaustion  and  bewilderment.  That  sound,  of  course, 
he  had  long  since  explained  and  argued  away — it  was  an 
auditory  hallucination  conveyed  to  his  mind  by  LeVallon, 
who  originated  it.  Interesting  and  curious,  it  was  far  from 
inexplicable.  It  was  disquieting,  however,  for  it  touched 
in  him  a  vague  sense  of  alarm,  as  though  it  paved  the  way 
for  that  odd  panic  terror  he  had  been  amazed  to  discover 
hidden  away  deeply  in  some  unrealized  corner  of  his  being. 

This  humming  he  now  listened  to,  though  normal  and 
ordinary  enough — there  were  no  big  vibrations  with  it,  for 
one  thing — was  too  suggestive  of  that  other  sound  for  him 
to  approve  of  it.  His  mind  rapidly  sought  some  way  of 
stopping  it.  A  command,  above  all  an  impatient,  harsh 
command,  was  out  of  the  question,  yet  a  request  seemed 
equally  not  the  right  way.  He  fumbled  in  his  mind  to  find 
the  wise,  proper  words.  He  stretched  his  hand  out,  as 
though  to  lay  it  quietly  upon  his  companion's  shoulder — 
but  realized  suddenly  he  could  not — almost  he  dared  not — 
touch  him. 

The  same  instant  "N.  H."  rose.  He  pushed  his  chair 
back  and  stood  up. 

Devonham,  justly  proud  of  his  equable  temperament  and 
steady  nerves,  admits  that  only  a  great  effort  of  self-control 
enabled  him  to  sit  quietly  and  listen.  He  listened,  watched, 
and  made  mental  notes  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  but  he 
was  frightened  a  little.  The  outburst  was  so  sudden.  He 
is  not  sure  that  his  report  of  what  he  heard,  made  later 
to  Fillery,  was  a  verbatim,  accurate  one : 

"Justice  we  know,"  cried  "N.  H."  in  his  half-chanting 
voice  that  seemed  to  boom  with  resonance,  "but  this — this 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  325 

mercy,  gentle  kindness,  beauty — this  unknown  loveliness — 
we  did  not  know  it!"  He  went  to  the  open  window,  and 
threw  his  arms  wide,  as  though  he  invoked  the  sun.  "Dimly 
we  heard  of  it.  We  strive,  we  strive,  we  weave  and  build 
and  fashion  while  the  whirl  of  centuries  flies  on.  This 
lesser  God — he  came  among  us,  too,  making  our  service 
sweeter,  though  we  did  not  understand.  Our  work  grew 
wiser  and  more  careful,  we  built  lovelier  forms,  and  knew 
not  why  we  did  so.  His  mighty  rhythms  touched  us  with 
their  power  and  happy  light.  Oh,  my  great  messengers  of 
wind  and  fire,  bring  me  the  memory  I  have  lost !  Oh,  where, 
where ?"" 

He  shook  himself,  as  though  his  clothes,  perhaps  his  body 
even;  irked  him.  It  was  a  curious  coincidence,  thought 
Devonham,  as  he  watched  and  listened,  too  surprised  and 
puzzled  to  interfere  either  by  word  or  act,  that  a  cloud,  at 
that  very  moment,  passed  from  the  face  of  the  sun,  and 
a  gust  of  wind  shook  all  the  branches  of  the  lime  trees 
in  the  garden.  "N.  H."  stood  drenched  in  the  white  clear 
sunshine.  His  flaming  hair  was  lifted  by  the  wind. 

"Behind,  beyond  the  Suns  He  dwells  and  burns  for  ever. 
Oh,  the  mercy,  kindness,  the  strange  beauty  of  this  personal 
love — what  is  it  ?  These  have  been  promised  to  us  too !" 

He  broke  off  abruptly,  bowed  his  great  head  and  shoulders, 
and  sank  upon  his  knees  in  an  attitude  of  worship.  Then, 
stretching  his  arms  out  to  the  sky,  the  face  raised  into  the 
flood  of  sunlight,  while  his  voice  became  lower,  softer,  al- 
most hushed,  he  spoke  again: 

"Our  faithful  service,  while  the  circles  swallow  the  suns, 
shall  lift  us  too !  You,  who  sent  me  here  to  help  this  little, 
dying  Race,  oh,  help  me  to  remember !" 

His  passion  was  a  moving  sight;  the  words,  broken 
through  with  fragments  of  his  chanting,  singing,  had  the 
blood  of  some  infinite,  intolerable  yearning  in  them. 

Devonham,  meanwhile,  having  heard  outbursts  of  this 
strange  kind  before  with  others,  had  recovered  something 
of  his  equanimity.  He  felt  more  sure  of  himself  again. 


326  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

The  touch  of  fear  had  left  him.  He  went  over  to  the 
window.  The  attack,  as  he  deemed  it,  was  passing.  A 
thick  cloud  hid  the  sun  again.  "There,  there,"  he  said 
soothingly,  laying  both  hands  upon  the  other's  shoulders, 
then  taking  the  arms  to  help  him  rise.  "I  told  you  His 
teachings  were  very  beautiful — that  the  world  would  become 
a  kind  of  heaven  if  people  lived  them."  His  voice  seemed 
not  his  own;  beside  the  volume  and  music  of  the  other's 
it  had  a  thin,  rasping,  ugly  sound. 

"N.  H."  was  on  his  feet,  gazing  down  into  his  face; 
to  Devonham's  amazement  there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  that 
met  his  own. 

"And  many  people  do  live  them — try  to,  rather,"  he  added 
gently.  "There  are  thousands  who  really  worship  this  lesser 
God  to-day.  You  can't  go  far  wrong  yourself  if  you  take 
Him  as  your  model  an " 

"How  He  must  have  suffered !"  came  the  astonishing  in- 
terruption, the  voice  quiet  and  more  natural  again.  "There 
was  no  way  of  telling  what  he  knew.  He  had  no  words, 
of  course.  You  are  all  so  difficult,  so  caged,  so — dead !" 

Devonham  smiled.  "He  used  parables."  He  paused  a 
moment,  then  went  on  "Men  have  existed  on  the  planet, 
science  tells  us,  for  at  least  403,000  years,  whereas  He  came 
here  only  2,000  years  ago " 

"Came  here,"  interrupted  the  pupil,  as  though  the  earth 
were  but  one  of  a  thousand  places  visited,  a  hint  of  contempt 
and  pity  somewhere  in  his  tone  and  gesture.  "We  made  His 
way  ready  then !  We  prepared,  we  built !  It  was  for  that 
our  work  went  on  and  on  so  faithfully." 

He  broke  off.  .  .  . 

Devonham  experienced  a  curious  sensation  as  he  heard. 
In  that  instant  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  conscious 
of  the  movement  of  the  earth  through  space.  He  was  aware 
that  the  planet  on  which  he  stood  was  rushing  forward  at 
eighteen  miles  a  second  through  the  sky.  He  felt  himself 
carried  forward  with  it. 

"What  was  His  name?"  he  heard  "N.  H."  asking.     It 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  327 

was  as  though  he  was  aware  of  the  enormous  interval  in 
space  traversed  by  the  rolling  earth  between  the  first  and 
last  words  of  the  sudden  question.  It  trailed  through  an 
immense  distance  towards  him,  after  him,  yet  at  the  same 
time  ever  with  him. 

"His  name — oh — Jesus  Christ,  we  call  him,"  wondering 
at  the  same  moment  why  he  used  the  pronoun  "we." 

"Jesus— Christ!" 

"N.  H."  repeated  the  name  with  such  intensity  and  power 
that  the  sound,  borne  by  deep  vibrations,  seemed  to  surge 
and  circle  forth  into  space  while  the  earth  rushed  irresistibly 
onwards.  A  faintly  imaginative  idea  occurred  to  Devonham 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life — it  was  as  though  the  earth 
herself  had  opened  her  green  lips  and  uttered  the  great 
name.  With  this  came  also  the  amazing  and  disconcerting 
conviction  that  Nature  and  humans  were  expressions  of 
one  and  the  same  big  simple  energy,  and  that  while  their 
forms,  their  bodies,  differed,  the  life  manifesting  through 
them  was  identical,  though  its  degree  might  vary.  For  an 
instant  this  was  of  such  overpowering  conviction  as  to  be 
merely  obvious. 

It  passed  as  quickly  as  it  came,  though  he  still  was  dimly 
conscious  that  he  had  travelled  with  the  earth  through 
another  huge  stretch  of  space.  Then  this  sense  of  movement 
also  passed.  He  looked  up.  "N.  H."  was  in  his  chair 
again  at  the  table,  reading  quietly  his  book  on  natural 
history.  But  in  his  eyes  the  moisture  of  tears  was  still 
visible. 

Devonham  adjusted  his  glasses,  blew  his  nose,  went 
quickly  to  another  room  to  jot  down  his  notes  of  the  talk, 
the  reactions,  the  general  description,  and  in  doing  so  dis- 
missed from  his  mind  the  slight  uneasy  effects  of  what  had 
been  a  "curious  hallucination,"  caused  evidently  by  an  "un- 
explained stimulation"  of  the  motor  centres  in  the  brain. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

full  account  of  "N.  H.,"  with  all  he  said  and  did, 
_L  his  effect  upon  others,  his  general  activities  in  a 
word,  it  is  impossible  to  compress  intelligibly  into  the  com- 
pass of  these  notes.  A  complete  report  Edward  Fillery 
indeed  accumulated,  but  its  publication,  he  realized,  must 
await  that  leisure  for  which  his  busy  life  provided  little 
opportunity.  His  eyes,  mental  and  physical,  were  never 
off  his  "patient,"  and  "N.  H.,"  aware  of  it,  leaped  out  to 
meet  the  observant  sympathy,  giving  all  he  could,  concealing 
nothing,  yet  debarred,  it  seemed,  by  the  rigid  limitations 
of  his  own  mental  and  physical  machinery,  as  similarly  by 
that  of  his  hearers,  from  contributing  more  than  suggestive 
and  tantalizing  hints.  Of  the  use  of  parable  he,  obviously, 
had  no  knowledge. 

His  relations  with  others,  perhaps,  offered  the  most  sig- 
nificant comments  on  his  personality.  Fillery  was  at  some 
pains  to  collect  these.  The  reactions  were  various,  yet  one 
and  all  showed  this  in  common,  a  curious  verdict  but  unan- 
imous: that  his  effect,  namely,  was  greatest  when  he  was 
not  there.  Not  in  his  actual  presence,  which  promised  rather 
than  fulfilled,  was  his  power  so  dominating  upon  mind  and 
imagination  as  after  the  door  was  closed  and  he  was  gone. 
The  withdrawal  of  his  physical  self,  its  absence — as  Fillery 
had  himself  experienced  one  night  on  Hampstead  Heath 
as  well  as  on  other  occasions — brought  his  real  presence 
closer. 

It  was  Nayan  who  first  drew  attention  to  thi?  remarkable 
characteristic.  She  spoke  about  him  often  now  with  Dr. 
Fillery,  for  as  the  weeks  passed  and  she  realized  the  useless- 
ness,  the  impossibility,  of  the  plan  she  had  proposed  to 

328 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  329 

herself,  she  found  relief  in  talking  frankly  about  him  to 
her  older  friend. 

"Always,  always  after  I  leave  him,"  she  confessed,  "a 
profound  and  searching  melancholy  gets  hold  of  me,  poign- 
ant as  death,  yet  an  extraordinary  unrealized  beauty  behind 
it  somewhere.  It  steals  into  my  very  blood  and  bones.  I 
feel  an  intense  dissatisfaction  with  the  world,  with  people 
as  they  are,  and  a  burning  scorn  for  all  that  is  small,  un- 
worthy, petty,  mean — and  yet  a  hopelessness  of  ever  attain- 
ing to  that  something  which  he  knows  and  lives  so  easily." 
She  sighed,  gazing  into  his  eyes  a  moment.  "Or  of  ever 
making  others  see  it,"  she  added. 

"And  that  'something,'  "  he  asked,  "can  you  define  it  ?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "It's  in  me,  within  reach  even,  but 
— the  word  he  used  is  the  only  one — forgotten." 

"Perhaps — has  it  ever  occurred  to  you? — that  he  simply 
cannot  describe  it.  There  are  no  words,  no  means  at  his 
disposal — no  human  terms?" 

"Perhaps,"  she  murmured. 

"Desirable,  though  ?"  he  urged  her  gently. 

She  clasped  her  hands,  smiling.  "Heavenly,"  she  mur- 
mured, closing  her  eyes  a  moment  as  though  to  try  and 
recall  it.  "Yet  when  I'm  with  him,"  she  went  on,  "he  never 
quite  realizes  for  me  the  state  of  wonder  and  delight  his 
presence  promises.  His  personality  suggests  rather  than 
fulfils."  She  paused,  a  wistful,  pained  expression  in  her 
dark  eyes.  "The  failure,"  she  added  quickly,  lest  she  seem 
to  belittle  him  of  whom  she  spoke,  "of  course  lies  in  myself. 
I  refuse,  you  see — I  can't  say  why,  though  I  feel  it's  wise — 
to  let  myself  be  dominated  by  that  strange,  lost  part  of  me 
he  stimulates." 

"True,"  interposed  Dr.  Fillery.  "I  understand.  Yet  to 
have  felt  this  even  is  a  sign " 

"That  he  stirs  the  deepest,  highest  in  me?  This  hint  of 
divine  beauty  in  the  unrealized  under-self?" 

He  nodded.  There  was  an  odd  touch  of  sadness  in  their 
talk.  "I've  watched  him  with  many  types  of  people,"  he 


330  THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

went  on  thoughtfully,  almost  as  though  thinking  aloud  in 
his  rapid  way,  "I've  talked  with  him  on  many  subjects.  The 
meanness,  jealousy,  insignificance  of  the  Race  shocks  and 
amazes  him.  He  cannot  understand  it.  He  asked  me  once 
'But  is  no  one  born  noble?  To  be  splendid  is  such  an  effort 
with  them!'  Splendour  of  conduct,  he  noticed,  is  a  cal- 
culated, rarely  a  spontaneous  splendour.  The  general  re- 
sistance to  new  ideas  also  puzzles  him.  'They  fear  a  rhythm 
they  have  never  felt  before,'  as  he  put  it.  To  adopt  a  new 
rhythm,  they  think,  must  somehow  injure  them.'  That  the 
Race  respects  a  man  because  he  possesses  much  equally  be- 
wilders him.  'No  one  serves  willingly  or  naturally,'  he 
observed,  'or  unless  someone  else  receives  money  for  draw- 
ing attention  loudly  to  it.'  Any  notion  of  reward,  of  adver- 
tisement, in  its  widest  meaning,  is  foreign  to  his  nature." 

He  broke  off.  Another  pause  fell  between  them,  the  girl 
the  first  to  break  it : 

"He  suffers,"  she  said  in  a  low  voice.  "Here — he  suffers," 
and  her  face  yearned  with  the  love  and  help  she  longed 
to  pour  out  beyond  all  thought  of  self  or  compensation, 
and  at  the  same  time  with  the  pain  of  its  inevitable  frus- 
tration ;  and,  watching  her,  Dr.  Fillery  understood  that  this 
very  yearning  was  another  proof  of  the  curious  impetus, 
the  intensification  of  being,  that  "N.  H."  caused  in  everyone. 
Yet  he  winced,  as  though  anticipating  the  question  she  at 
once  then  put  to  him : 

"You  are  afraid  for  him,  Edward?"  her  eyes  calmly, 
searchingly  on  his.  "His  future  troubles  you?" 

He  turned  to  her  with  abrupt  intensity.  "If  you,  Iraida, 

could  not  enchain  him "  He  broke  off.  He  shrugged 

his  shoulders. 

"I  have  no  power,"  she  confessed.  "An  insatiable  longing 
burns  like  a  fire  in  him.  Nothing  he  finds  here  on  earth, 
among  men  and  women,  can  satisfy  it."  A  faint  blush  stole 
up  her  neck  and  touched  her  cheeks.  "He  is  different.  / 
have  no  power  to  keep  him  here."  Her  voice  sank  suddenly 
to  a  whisper,  as  though  a  breath  of  awe  passed  into  her'. 


THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER  331 

"He  is  here  now  at  this  very  moment,  I  believe.  He  is 
with  us  as  we  talk  together.  I  feel  him."  Almost  a  visible 
thrill  passed  through  her.  "And  close,  so  very  close — to 
you." 

Dr.  Fillery  made  no  sign  by  word  or  gesture,  but  some- 
thing in  his  very  silence  gave  assent. 

"And  not  alone,"  she  added,  still  under  her  breath.  It 
seemed  she  looked  about  her,  though  she  did  not  actually 
move  or  turn  her  head.  "Others — of  his  kind,  Edward — 
come  with  him.  They  are  always  with  him — I  think  some- 
times." Her  whisper  was  fainter  still. 

"You  feel  that  too !"  He  said  it  abruptly,  his  voice  louder 
and  almost  challenging.  Then  he  added  incongruously,  as 
though  saying  it  to  himself  this  time,  "That's  what  I  mean. 
I've  known  it  for  a  long  time " 

He  looked  at  the  girl  sharply  with  unconcealed  admira- 
tion. "It  does  not  frighten  you?"  he  asked,  and  in  reply 
she  said  the  very  thing  he  felt  sure  she  would  say,  hoping 
for  it  even  while  he  shrank: 

"Escape,"  he  heard  in  a  low,  clear  voice,  half  a  question, 
half  an  exclamation,  and  saw  the  blood  leave  her  face. 

The  instinctive  "Hush !"  that  rose  to  his  lips  he  did  not 
utter.  The  sense  of  loss,  of  searching  pain,  the  word  im- 
plied he  did  not  show.  Instead,  he  spoke  in  his  natural, 
everyday  tone  again : 

"The  body  irks  him,  of  course,  and  he  may  try  to  rid 
himself  of  it.  Its  limitations  to  him  are  a  prison,  for  his 
true  consciousness  he  finds  outside  it.  The  explanation," 
he  added  to  himself,  "of  many  a  case  of  suicidal  mania 
probably.  I've  often  wondered " 

He  took  her  hand,  aware  by  the  pallor  of  her  face  what 
her  feelings  were.  "Death,  you  see,  Nayan,  has  no  meaning 
for  him,  as  it  has  for  us  who  think  consciousness  out  of 
the  body  impossible,  and  he  is  puzzled  by  our  dread  of  it. 
'We/  he  said  once,  'have  nothing  that  decays.  We  may  be 
stationary,  or  advance,  or  retreat,  but  we  can  never  end.' 
He  derives — oh,  I'm  convinced  of  it — from  another  order. 


332  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

Here — amongst  us — he  is  inarticulate,  unable  to  express 
himself,  hopeless,  helpless,  in  prison.  Oh,  if  only " 

"He  loves  you''  she  said  quickly,  releasing  her  hand. 
"I  suppose  he  realizes  the  eternal  part  of  you  and  identifies 
himself  with  that.  In  you,  Edward,  lies  something  very 
close  to  what  he  is,  akin — he  needs  it  terribly,  just  as 
you "  She  became  confused. 

"Love,  as  we  understand  it,"  he  interrupted,  his  voice 
shaking  a  little,  "he  does  not,  cannot  know,  for  he  serves 
another  law,  another  order  of  being." 

"That's  how  I  feel  it  too." 

She  shivered  slightly,  but  she  did  not  turn  away,  and 
her  eyes  kept  all  their  frankness. 

"Our  humanity,"  she  murmured,  "writes  upon  his  heart 
in  ink  that  quickly  fades " 

"And  leaves  no  trace,"  he  caught  her  up  hurriedly.  "His 
one  idea  is  to  help,  to  render  service.  It  is  as  natural  to 
him  as  for  water  to  run  down  hill.  He  seeks  instinctively 
to  become  one  with  the  person  he  seeks  to  aid.  As  with 
us  an  embrace  is  an  attempt  at  union,  so  he  seeks,  by  some 
law  of  his  own  being,  to  become  identified  with  those  whom 
he  would  help.  And  he  helps  by  intensifying  their  con- 
sciousness— somewhat  as  heat  and  air  increase  ordinary 
physical  vitality.  Only,  first  there  must  be  something  for 
him  to  work  on.  Energy,  even  bad,  vicious,  wrongly  used, 
he  can  work  on.  Mere  emptiness  prevents  him.  You  remem- 
ber Lady  Gleeson " 

"We — most  of  us — are  too  empty,"  she  put  in  with  quiet 
resignation.  "Our  sense  of  that  divine  beauty  is  too 
faint " 

"Rather,"  came  the  quick  correction,  "he  stands  too  close 
to  us.  His  effect  is  too  concentrated.  The  power  at  such 
close  quarters  disturbs  and  overbalances." 

"That's  why,  then,  I  always  feel  it  strongest  when  he's 
left." 

He  glanced  at  her  keenly. 

"In  his  presence,"  she  explained,  "it's  always  as  though 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  333 

I  saw  only  a  part  of  him,  even  of  his  physical  appearance, 

out  of  the  corner  of  my  eye,  as  it  were,  and  sometimes " 

She  hesitated.  He  did  not  help  her  this  time.  "As  if  those 
others,  many  others,  similar  to  himself,  but  invisible,  crowd- 
ing space  about  us,  were  intensely  active."  Her  voice  hushed 
again.  "He  brings  them  with  him — as  now.  I  feel  it, 
Edward,  now.  I  feel  them  close."  She  looked  round  the 
empty  room,  peering  through  the  window  into  the  quiet 
evening  sky.  Dr.  Fillery  also  turned  away.  He  sighed 
again.  "Have  you  noticed,  too,"  he  went  on  presently, 
yet  half  as  if  following  his  own  thoughts,  and  a  trifle  in- 
congruously, "the  speed  and  lightness  his  very  movements 
convey,  and  how  he  goes  down  the  street  with  that  curious 
air  of  drawing  things  after  him,  along  with  him,  as  trains 
and  motors  draw  the  loose  leaves  and  dust " 

"Whirling,"  her  quick  whisper  startled  him  a  little,  as 
she  turned  abruptly  from  the  window  and  gazed  straight 
at  him.  He  smiled,  instantly  recovering  himself.  "A  good 
word,  yes — whirling — but  in  the  plural.  As  though  there 
were  vortices  about  him." 

It  was  her  turn  to  smile.  "That  might  one  day  carry 
him  away,"  she  exclaimed.  They  smiled  together  then, 
they  even  laughed,  but  somewhere  in  their  laughter,  like 
the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  spring  day  outside,  lay  an 
incommunicable  sadness  neither  of  them  could  wholly  under- 
stand. 

"Yet  the  craving  for  beauty,"  she  said  suddenly,  "that 
he  leaves  behind  in  me" — her  voice  wavered — "an  intolerable 
yearning  that  nothing  can  satisfy — nothing — here.  An  in- 
finite desire,  it  seems,  for — for " 

Dr.  Fillery  took  her  hand  again  gently,  looking  down 
steadily  into  the  clear  eyes  that  sought  his  own,  and  the 
light  glistening  in  their  moisture  was  similar,  he  fancied 
for  a  moment,  to  the  fire  in  another  pair  of  shining  eyes 
that  never  failed  to  stir  the  unearthly  dreams  in  him. 

"It  lies  beyond  any  words  of  ours,"  he  said  softly.  "Don't 
struggle  to  express  it,  Iraida.  To  the  flower,  the  star,  we 


334  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

are  wise  to  leave  their  own  expression  in  their  own  par- 
ticular field,  for  we  cannot  better  it." 

A  sound  of  rising  wind,  distant  yet  ominous,  went  past 
the  window,  as  for  a  moment  then  the  girl  came  closer 
till  she  was  almost  in  his  arms,  and  though  he  did  not 
accept  her,  equally  he  did  not  shrink  from  the  idea  of 
acceptance — for  the  first  time  since  they  had  known  one 
another.  There  was  a  smell  of  flowers ;  almost  in  that  wail- 
ing wind  he  was  aware  of  music. 

"Together,"  he  heard  her  whisper,  while  a  faint  shiver 
— was  it  of  joy  or  terror? — ran  through  her  nerves.  "All 
of  us — when  the  time  comes — together."  She  made  an  ab- 
rupt movement.  "Just  as  we  are  together  now  !  Listen !" 
she  exclaimed. 

"We  call  it  wind,"  she  whispered.  "But  of  course — 
really — it's  behind — beyond — inside — isn't  it  ?" 

Dr.  Fillery,  holding  her  closely,  made  no  answer.  Then 
he  laughed,  let  go  her  hands,  and  said  in  his  natural  tone 
again,  breaking  an  undesirable  spell  intentionally,  though 
with  a  strong  effort :  "We  are  in  space  and  time,  remember. 
Iraida.  Let  us  obey  them  happily  until  another  certain  and 
practical  thing  is  shown  us." 

The  faint  sound  that  had  been  rising  about  them  in  the 
air  died  down  again. 

They  looked  into  each  other's  eyes,  then  drew  apart, 
though  with  a  movement  so  slight  it  was  scarcely  perceptible. 
It  was  Nayan  and  Dr.  Fillery  once  more,  but  not  before 
the  former  had  apparently  picked  out  the  very  thought  that 
had  lain,  though  unexpressed,  in  the  latter's  deepest  mind — 
its  sudden  rising  the  cause  of  his  deliberate  change  of  atti- 
tude. For  she  had  phrased  it,  given  expression  to  it,  though 
from  an  angle  very  different  to  his  own.  And  her  own 
word,  "escape,"  used  earlier  in  the  conversation,  had  de- 
liberately linked  on  with  it,  as  of  intentional  purpose. 

"He  must  go  back.  The  time  is  coming  when  he  must 
go  back.  We  are  not  ready  for  him  here — not  yet." 

Somewhat  in   this    fashion,   though  without  any   actual 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  335 

words,  had  the  idea  appeared  in  letters  of  fire  that  leaped 
and  flickered  through  a  mist  of  anguish,  of  loss,  of  lone- 
liness, rising  out  of  the  depths  within  him.  He  knew  whence 
they  came,  he  divined  their  origin  at  once,  and  the  sound, 
though  faint  and  distant  at  first,  confirmed  him.  Swiftly 
behind  them,  moreover,  born  of  no  discoverable  antecedents, 
it  seemed,  rose  simultaneously  the  phrase  that  Father  Collins 
loved:  "A  Being  in  his  own  place  is  the  ruler  of  his  fate." 
Father  Collins,  for  all  his  faults  and  strangeness,  was  a 
personality,  a  consciousness,  that  might  prove  of  value.  His 
extraordinarily  swift  receptiveness,  his  undoubted  telepathic 
powers,  his  fluid,  sensitive,  protean  comprehension  of  pos- 
sibilities outside  the  human  walls,  above  the  earthly  ceiling, 
so  to  speak.  .  .  .  Value  suddenly  attached  itself  to  Father 
Collins,  as  though  the  name  had  been  dropped  purposely 
into  his  mind  by  someone.  He  was  surprised  to  find  this 
thought  in  him.  It  was  not  for  the  first  time,  however,  Dr. 
Fillery  remembered. 

In  Nayan's  father,  again,  an  artist,  though  not  a  par- 
ticularly subtle  one  perhaps,  lay  a  deep  admiration,  almost 
a  love,  he  could  not  explain.  "There's  something  about 
him  in  a  sense  immeasurable,  something  not  only  untamed 
but  untamable,"  he  phrased  it.  "His  gentleness  conceals 
it  as  a  summer's  day  conceals  a  thunderstorm.  To  me  it's 
almost  like  an  incarnation  of  the  primal  forces  at  work  in 
the  hearts  of  my  own  people" — he  grew  sad — "and  as 
dangerous  probably."  He  was  speaking  to  his  daughter, 
who  repeated  the  words  later  to  Dr.  Fillery.  The  study  of 
Fire  in  the  elemental  group  had  failed.  "He's  too  big,  too 
vast,  too  formless,  to  get  into  any  shape  or  outline  my  tools 
can  manage,  even  by  suggestion.  He  dominates  the  others 
— Earth,  Air,  Water — and  dwarfs  them." 

"But  fire  ought  to,"  she  put  in.  "It's  the  most  powerful 
and  splendid,  the  most  terrific  of  them  all.  Isn't  it?  It 
regenerates.  It  purifies.  I  love  fire " 

Her  father  smiled  in  his  beard,  noticing  the  softness  in 


336  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

her  manner,  rather  than  in  her  voice.  The  awakening  in 
her  he  had  long  since  understood  sympathetically,  if  more 
profoundly  than  she  knew,  and  welcomed. 

"He  won't  hurt  you,  child.  He  won't  harm  Nayushka 
any  more  than  a  summer's  day  can  hurt  her.  I  see  him 
thus  sometimes,"  he  mumbled  on  half  to  himself,  though 
she  heard  and  stored  the  words  in  her  memory;  "as  an 
entire  day,  a  landscape  even,  I  often  see  him.  A  stretch 
of  being  rather  than  a  point;  a  rushing  stream  rather  than 
a  single  isolated  wave  harnessed  and  confined  in  definite 
form — as  we  understand  being  here,"  he  added  curiously. 
"No,  he'll  neither  harm  nor  help  you,"  he  went  on;  "nor 
any  of  us  for  that  matter.  A  dozen  nations,  a  planet,  a 
star  he  might  help  or  harm" — he  laughed  aloud  suddenly 
in  a  startled  way  at  his  own  language — "but  an  individual 
never!"  And  he  abruptly  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her,  drying  her  tears  with  his  own  rough  handkerchief. 
"Not  even  a  fire- worshipper,"  he  added  with  gruff  tender- 
ness, "like  you!" 

"There's  more  of  divinity  in  fire  than  in  any  other  earthly 
thing  we  know,"  she  replied  as  he  held  her,  "for  it  takes 
into  itself  the  sweetest  essence  of  all  it  touches."  She  looked 
up  at  him  with  a  smile.  "That's  why  you  can't  get  it  into 
your  marble  perhaps."  To  which  her  father  made  the  sig- 
nificant rejoinder:  "And  because  none  of  us  has  the  least 
conception  what  'divine'  and  'divinity'  really  mean,  though 
we're  always  using  the  words !  It's  odd,  anyhow,"  he 
finished  reflectively,  "that  I  can  model  the  fellow  better  from 
memory  than  when  he's  standing  there  before  my  eyes. 
At  close  quarters  he  confuses  me  with  too  many  terrific 
unanswerable  questions." 

To  multiply  the  verdicts  and  impressions  Fillery  jotted 
down  is  unnecessary.  In  his  own  way  he  collected;  in  his 
own  way  he  wrote  them  down.  About  "N.  H.,"  all  agreed 
in  their  various  ways  of  expressing  it,  was  that  vital  sugges- 
tion of  agelessness,  of  deathlessness,  of  what  men  call 
eternal  youth :  the  vigorous  grace  of  limbs  and  movements, 


THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER  837 

the  deep  simple  joy  of  confider>ce  and  power.  None  could 
picture  him  tired,  or  even  wearing  out,  yet  ever  with  a  faint 
hint  of  painful  conflict  due  to  immense  potentialities — "a 
day  compressed  into  a  single  minute,"  as  Khilkoff  phrased 
it — straining,  but  vainly,  to  express  themselves  through  a 
limited  form  that  was  inadequate  to  their  use.  A  storm 
of  passionate  hope  and  wonder  seemed  ever  ready  to  tear 
forth  from  behind  the  calm  of  the  great  quiet  eyes,  those 
green-blue  changing  eyes,  which  none  could  imagine  light- 
less  or  unlamping;  and  about  his  whole  presentment  a 
surplus  of  easy,  overflowing  energy  from  an  inexhaustible 
source  pressing  its  gifts  down  into  him  spontaneously,  fire 
and  wind  its  messengers;  yet  that  the  human  machinery 
using  these — mind,  body,  nerves — was  ill  adapted  to  their 
full  expression.  To  every  individual  having  to  do  with  him 
was  given  a  push,  a  drive,  an  impetus  that  stimulated  that 
individual's  chief  characteristic,  intensifying  it. 

This  to  imaginative  and  discerning  sight.  But  even  upon 
ordinary  folk,  aware  only  of  the  surface  things  that  de- 
|liberately  hit  them,  was  left  a  startling  impression  as  of 
someone  waving  a  strange,  unaccustomed  banner  that  made 
them  halt  and  stare  before  passing  on — uncomfortably.  He 
had  that  nameless  quality,  apart  from  looks  or  voice  or 
manner,  which  arrested  attention  and  drew  the  eyes  of  the 
soul,  wonderingly,  perhaps  uneasily,  upon  itself.  He  left 
a  mark.  Something  denned  him  from  all  others,  leaving 
him  silhouetted  in  the  mind,  and  those  who  had  looked 
into  his  eyes  could  not  forget  that  they  had  done  so.  Up 
rose  at  once  the  great  unanswerable  questions  that,  lying 
ever  at  the  back  of  daily  life,  the  majority  find  it  most 
comfortable  to  leave  undisturbed — but  rose  in  red  ink  or 
italics.  He  started  into  an  awareness  of  greater  life.  And  the 
effect  remained,  was  greatest  even,  after  he  had  passed  on. 

It  was,  of  course,  Father  Collins,  a  frequent  caller  now 
at  the  Home,  betraying  his  vehement  interest  in  long  talks 
with  Dr.  Fillery  and  in  what  interviews  with  "N.  H."  the 


338  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

latter  permitted  him — it  was  this  protean  being  whose  mind, 
amid  wildest  speculations,  formed  the  most  positive  con- 
clusions. The  Prometheans,  he  believed,  were  not  far  wrong 
in  their  instinctive  collective  judgment.  "N.  H."  was  not 
a  human  being;  the  occupant  of  that  magnificent  body  was 
not  a  human  spirit  like  the  rest  of  us. 

"Nor  is  he  the  only  one  walking  the  streets  to-day,"  he 
affirmed  mysteriously.  "In  shops  and  theatres,  trains  and 
buses,  tucked  in  among  the  best  families,"  he  laughed,  al- 
though in  earnest,  "and  even  in  suburbia  I  have  come  across 
other  human  bodies  similarly  inhabited.  What  they  are 
and  where  they  come  from  exactly,  we  cannot  know,  but 
their  presence  among  us  is  indubitable." 

"You  mean  you  recognize  them?"  inquired  Dr.  Fillery 
calmly. 

"One  unmistakable  sign  they  possess  in  common — they 
are  invariably  inarticulate,  helpless,  lost.  The  brain,  the 
five  senses,  the  human  organs — all  they  have  to  work 
through — are  useless  to  express  the  knowledge  and  powers 
natural  to  them.  Electricity  might  as  well  try  to  manifest 
itself  through  a  gas-pipe,  or  music  through  a  stone.  One 
and  all,  too,  possess  strange  glimmerings  of  another  state 
where  they  are  happy  and  at  home,  something  of  the  glory 
a  la  Wordsworth,  a  Golden  Age  idea  almost,  a  state  com- 
pared to  which  humanity  seems  a  tin-pot  business,  yet  a 
state  of  which  no  single  descriptive  terms  occur  to  them." 

"Of  which,  however,  they  can  tell  us  nothing?" 

"Memory,  of  course,  is  lost.  Their  present  brain  can 
have  no  records,  can  it?  Only  those  of  us  who  have  per- 
haps at  some  time,  in  some  earlier  existence  possibly,  shared 
such  a  state  can  have  any  idea  of  what  they're  driving 
at." 

He  glanced  at  Fillery  with  a  significant  raising  of  his 
bushy  eyebrows. 

"There  have  been  no  phenomena,  I'm  glad  to  say,"  put 
in  the  doctor,  aware  some  comment  was  due  from  him, 
"no  physical  phenomena,  I  mean." 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  339 

"Nor  could  there  be,"  pursued  the  other,  delighted.  "He 
has  not  got  the  apparatus.  With  all  such  beings,  their 
power,  rather  than  perceived,  is  felt.  Sex,  as  with  us,  they 
also  cannot  know,  for  they  are  neither  male  nor  female." 
He  paused,  as  the  other  did  not  help  him.  "Enigmas  they 
must  always  be  to  us.  We  may  borrow  from  the  East  and 
call  them  devas,  or  class  them  among  nature  spirits  of 
legend  and  the  rest,  but  we  can,  at  any  rate,  welcome  them, 
and  perhaps  even  learn  from  them." 

"Learn  from  them?"  echoed  Fillery  sharply. 

"They  are  essentially  natural,  you  see,  whereas  we  are 
artificial,  and  becoming  more  so  with  every  century,  though 
we  call  it  civilization.  If  we  lived  closer  to  nature  we 
might  get  better  results,  I  mean.  Primitive  man,  I'm  con- 
vinced, did  get  certain  results,  but  he  was  a  poor  instrument. 
Modern  man,  in  some  ways,  is  a  better,  finer  instrument 
to  work  through,  only  he  is  blind  to  the  existence  of  any 
beings  but  himself.  A  bridge,  however,  might  be  built, 
I  feel.  'N.  H.'  seems  to  me  in  close  touch  with  these  curious 
beings,  if" — he  lowered  his  voice — "he  is  not  actually  one 
of  them.  The  wind  and  fire  he  talks  about  are,  of  course, 
not  what  we  mean.  It  is  heat  and  rhythm,  in  some  more 
essential  form,  he  refers  to.  If  'N.  H.'  is  some  sort  of 
nature  spirit,  or  nature-being,  he  is  of  a  humble  type,  con- 
cerned with  humble  duties  in  the  universe " 

"There  are,  you  think,  then,  higher,  bigger  kinds?'" 
inquired  the  listener,  his  face  and  manner  showing  neither 
approval  nor  disapproval. 

Father  Collins  raised  his  hands  and  face  and  shoulders, 
even  his  eyebrows.  His  spirits  rose  as  well. 

"If  they  exist  at  all — and  the  assumption  explains 
plausibly  the  amazing  intelligence  behind  all  natural  phe- 
nomena— they  include  every  grade,  of  course,  from  the 
insignificant  fairies,  so  called,  builders  of  simple  forms,  to 
the  immense  planetary  spirits  and  vast  Intelligenes  who 
guide  and  guard  the  welfare  of  the  greater  happenings." 
His  eyes  shone,  his  tone  matched  in  enthusiasm  his  gestures. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"A  stupendous  and  magnificent  hierarchy,"  he  cried,  "but 
all,  all  under  God,  of  course,  who  maketh  his  angels  spirit's 
and  his  ministers  a  flaming  fire.  Ah,  think  of  it,"  he  went 
on,  becoming  lyrical  almost  as  wonder  fired  him,  "think 
of  it  now  especially  in  the  spring!  The  vast  abundance 
and  insurgence  of  life  pouring  up  on  all  sides  into  forms 
and  bodies,  and  all  led,  directed,  fashioned  by  this  host  of 
invisible,  yet  not  unknowable,  Intelligences!  Think  of  the 
prolific  architecture,  the  delicacy,  the  grandeur,  the  inspir- 
ing beauty  that  are  involved.  .  .  . !" 

"You  said  just  now  a  bridge  might  be  built,"  Dr.  Fiilery 
interrupted,  while  the  other  paused  a  second  for  breath. 

Father  Collins,  nailed  down  to  a  positive  statement, 
hesitated  and  looked  about  him.  But  the  hesitation  passed 
at  once. 

"It  is  the  question  merely,"  he  went  on  more  composedly, 
"of  providing  the  apparatus,  the  means  of  manifestation, 
the  instrument,  the— -body.  Isn't  it?  Our  evolution  and 
theirs  are  two  separate — different  things." 

"I  suppose  so.  No  force  can  express  itself  without  a 
proper  apparatus." 

"Certain  of  these  Intelligences  are  so  immense  that  only 
a  series  of  events,  long  centuries,  a  period  of  history,  as 
we  call  it,  can  provide  the  means,  the  body  indeed,  through 
which  they  can  express  themselves.  An  entire  civilization 
may  be  the  'body'  used  by  an  archetypal  power.  Others, 
again — like  *N.  H.'  probably — since  I  notice  that  it  is  usually 
the  artist,  the  artistic  temperament  he  affects  most — require 
beauty  for  their  expression — beauty  of  form  and  outline, 
of  sound,  of  colour." 

He  paused  for  effect,  but  no  comment  came. 

"Our  response  to  beauty,  our  thrill,  our  lift  of  delight 
and  wonder  before  any  manifestation  of  beauty — these  are 
due  only  to  our  perception,  though  usually  unrecognized 
except  by  artists,  of  the  particular  Intelligence  thus  trying 
to  express  itself " 

Dr.  Fiilery  suddenly  leaned   forward,  listening  with  a 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  Ml 

new  expression  on  his  face.  He  betrayed,  however,  no 
sign  of  what  he  thought  of  his  voluble  visitor.  An  idea, 
none  the  less,  had  struck  Him  like  a  flash  between  the  eyes 
of  the  mind. 

"You  mean,"  he  interposed  patiently,  "that  just  as  your 
fairies  use  form  and  colour  to  express  themselves  in  nature, 
we  might  use  beauty  of  a  mental  order  to — to " 

"To  build  a  body  of  expression,  yes,  an  instrument  in 
a  collective  sense,  through  which  'X.  H.'  might  express 
whatever  of  knowledge,  wisdom  and  power  he  has " 

"Will  you  explain  yourself  a  little  more  definitely  ?" 

Father  Collins  beamed.  He  continued  with  an  air  of 
intense  conviction: 

"The  Artist  is  ever  an  instrument  merely,  and  for  the 
most  part  an  unconscious  one;  only  the  greatest  artist  is 
a  conscious  instrument.  No  man  is  an  artist  at  all  until 
he  transcends  both  nature  and  himself;  that  is,  until  he 
interprets  both  nature  and  himself  in  the  unknown  terms 
of  that  greater  Power  whence  himself  and  nature  emanate. 
He  is  aware  of  the  majestic  source,  aware  that  the  universe, 
in  bulk  and  in  detail,  is  an  expression  of  it,  itself  a  limited 
instrument;  but  aware,  further — and  here  he  proves  him- 
self great  artist— of  the  stupendous,  lovely,  central  Power 
whose  message  stammers,  broken  and  partial,  through  the 
inadequate  instruments  of  ephemeral  appearances. 

"He  creates,  using  beauty  in  form,  sound,  colour,  a  better 
and  more  perfect  instrument,  provides  this  central  Power 
with  a  means  of  fuller  expression. 

"The  message  no  longer  stammers,  halts,  suggests;  it 
flows,  it  pours,  it  sings.  He  has  fashioned  a  vehicle  for 
its  passage.  His  art  has  created  a  body  it  can  use.  He 
has  transcended  both  nature  and  himself.  The  picture, 
poem,  harmony  that  has  become  the  body  for  this  revelation 
is  alone  great  art." 

"Exactly,"  came  the  patient  comment  that  was  asked 
for. 

"One  thing  is  certain:  only  human  knowledge,  expressed 


342  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

in  human  terms,  can  come  through  a  human  brain.  No 
mind,  no  intellect,  can  convey  a  message  that  transcends 
human  experience  and  reason.  Art,  however,  can.  It  can 
supply  the  vehicle,  the  body.  But,  even  here,  the  great 
artist  cannot  communicate  the  secret  of  his  Vision;  he  can- 
not talk  about  it,  tell  it  to  others.  He  can  only  show  the 
result." 

"Results,"  interrupted  Dr.  Fillery  in  a  curious  tone; 
"what  results,  exactly,  would  you  look  for?"  There  was 
a  burning  in  his  eyes.  His  skin  was  tingling. 

"What  else  but  a  widening,  deepening,  heightening  of 
our  present  consciousness,"  came  the  instant  reply.  "An 
extension  of  faculty,  of  course,  making  entirely  new 
knowledge  available.  A  group  of  great  artists,  each  con- 
tributing his  special  vision,  respectively,  of  form,  colour, 
words,  proportion,  could  together  create  a  'body'  to  express 
a  Power  transcending  the  accumulated  wisdom  of  the  world. 
The  race  could  be  uplifted,  taught,  redeemed." 

"You  have  already  given  some  attention  to  this  strange 
idea  ?"  suggested  his  listener,  watching  closely  the  work- 
ing of  the  other's  face.  "You  have  perhaps  even  experi- 
mented   A  ceremonial  of  some  sort,  you  mean?  A 

performance,  a  ritual — or  what  ?" 

Father  Collins  lowered  his  voice,  becoming  more  earnest, 
more  impressive: 

"Beauty,  the  arts,"  he  whispered,  "can  alone  provide  a 
vehicle  for  the  expression  of  those  Intelligences  which  are 
the  cosmic  powers.  A  performance  of  some  sort — possibly 
— since  there  must  be  sound  and  movement.  A  bridge 
between  us,  between  our  evolution  and  their  own,  might, 
I  believe,  be  thus  constructed.  Art  is  only  great  when  it 
provides  a  true  form  for  the  expression  of  an  eternal  cosmic 
power.  By  combining — we  might  provide  a  means  for  their 
manifestation " 

"A  body  of  thought,  as  it  were,  through  which  our  'N.  H.' 
might  become  articulate?  Is  that  your  idea?" 

Behind  the  question  lay  something  new,  it  seemed,  as 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  343 

though,  while  listening  to  the  exposition  of  an  odd  mystical 
conception,  his  mind  had  been  busy  with  a  preoccupation, 
privately  but  simultaneously,  of  his  own.  "In  what  way 
precisely  do  you  suggest  the  arts  might  combine  to  provide 
this  'body'  ? "  he  asked,  a  faint  tremor  noticeable  iin  the 
lowered  voice. 

"That,"  replied  Father  Collins  promptly,  never  at  a  loss, 
"we  should  have  to  think  about.  Inspiration  will  come  to 
us — probably  through  him.  Ceremonial,  of  course,  has 
always  been  an  attempt  in  this  direction,  only  it  has  left 
the  world  so  long  that  people  no  longer  know  how  to  con- 
struct a  real  one.  The  ceremonials  of  to-day  are  ugly, 
vulgar,  false.  The  words,  music,  colour,  gestures — every- 
thing must  combine  in  perfect  harmony  and  proportion 
to  be  efficacious.  It  is  a  forgotten  method." 

"And  results — how  would  they  come?" 

"The  new  wisdom  and  knowledge  that  result  are  sud- 
denly there  in  the  members  of  the  group.  The  Power  has 
expressed  itself.  Not  through  the  brain,  of  course,  but, 
rather,  that  the  new  ideas,  having  been  acted  out,  are  sud- 
denly there.  There  has  been  an  extension  of  consciousness. 
A  group  consciousness  has  been  formed,  and " 

"And  there  you  are!"  Dr.  Fillery,  moving  his  foot 
unperceived,  had  touched  a  bell  beneath  the  table.  The 
foot,  however,  groped  and  fumbled,  as  though  unsure  of 
itself. 

"You  learn  to  swim — by  swimming,  not  by  talking  about 
it."  Father  Collins  was  prepared  to  talk  on  for  another 
hour,  "If  we  can  devise  the  means — and  I  feel  sure  we 
can — we  shall  have  formed  a  bridge  between  the  two 
evolutions " 

Nurse  Robbins  entered  with  apologies.  A  case  upstairs 
demanded  the  doctor's  instant  attendance.  Dr.  Devonham 
was  engaged. 

"One  thing,"  insisted  Father  Collins,  as  they  shook  hands 
and  he  got  up  to  go,  "one  thing  only  you  would  have  to 
fear."  He  was  very  earnest.  Evidently  the  signs  of 


Si4  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

struggle,  of  fierce  conflict  in  the  other's  face  he  did  not 
notice. 

"And  that  is?"    A  hand  was  on  the  door. 

"If  successful — if  we  provide  this  means  of  expression 
for  him — we  provide  also  the  means  of  losing  him." 

"Death?"  He  opened  the  door  with  rough,  unnecessary 
Yiotence. 

"Escape.  He  would  no  longer  need  the  body  he  now  uses. 
He  would  remember — and  be  gone.  In  his  place  you  would 
have — LeVaflon  again  only.  I'm  afraid,"  he  added,  "that 
he  already  is  remembering !" 

His  final  words,  as  Nurse  Robbins  deftly  hastened  his 
departure  in  the  ball,  were  a  promise  to  communicate  the 
results  of  his  further  reflections,  and  a  suggestion  that  his 
cottage  by  the  river  would  be  a  quiet  spot  in  which  to  talk 
the  matter  over  again. 

But  Dr.  Fillery,  having  thanked  Nurse  Robbins  for  her 
prompt  attendance  to  his  bell,  returned  to  the  room  and 
sat  for  some  time  in  a  strange  confusion  of  anxious 
thoughts.  A  singular  idea  took  shape  in  him — that  Father 
Collins  had  again  robbed  his  mind  of  its  unspoken  content 
That  sensitive  receptive  nature  had  first  perceived,  then 
given  form  to  the  vague,  incoherent  dreams  that  lurked 
in  tiie  innermost  recesses  of  his  hidden  self. 

Yet,  if  that  were  so and  if  "N.  H."  already  was 

"ranembermg^ ! 

A  wave  of  shadow  crept  upon  him,  darkening  his  hope, 
his  enthusiasm,  his  very  life.  For  another  part  of  him 
knew  quite  well  the  value  to  be  attributed  to  what  Father 
Coffins  had  said. 

Instinctivery  his  mind  sought  for  Devonham.  But  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  at  the  moment  to  wonder  why  this  was  so. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

SPRING  had  come  with  her  sweet  torment  of  delight, 
her  promises,  her  passion,  and  London  lay  washed  and 
perfumed  beneath  April's  eager  sun.  An  immense, 
persuasive  glamour  was  in  the  sky.  The  whole  earth  caught 
up  a  swifter  gear,  as  the  magic  of  rich  creative  life  poured 
out  of  "dead"  soil  into  flower,  insect,  bird  and  animal . 
The  prodigious  stream  omitted  no  single  form;  every 
"body"  pulsed  and  blossomed  at  full  strength.  The  hidden 
powers  in  each  seed  emerged.  And  it  was  from  the 
inanimate  body  of  the  earth  this  flood  of  increased  vitality 
rose. 

Into  Edward  Fillery,  strolling  before  breakfast  over  the 
wet  lawn  of  the  enclosed  garden,  the  tide  of  new  life  rose 
likewise.  It  was  very  early,  the  flush  of  dawn  still  near 
enough  for  the  freshness  of  the  new  day  to  be  even-where. 
The  greater  part  of  the  huge  city  was  asleep.  He  was 
alone  with  the  first  birds,  the  dew,  the  pearl  and  gold  of 
the  sun's  slanting  rays.  He  saw  the  slates  and  chimneys 
glisten.  Spring,  like  a  visible  presence,  was  passing  across 
the  town,  bringing  the  amazing  message  that  all  obey  yet 
no  man  under~tands. 

"This  is  its  touch  upon  the  blossomed  rose, 

The  fashion  of  its  hand  shaped  lotus-leaves; 
In  dark  soil  and  the  silence  of  the  seeds 
The  robe  of  spring  it  weaves, 

"  It  maketh  and  unmaketh,  mending  all ; 

What  it  hath  wrought  is  better  than  had  been; 
Slow  grows  the  splendid  pattern  that  it  plans, 
Its  wistful  hands  between." 
345 


316  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

The  lines  came  to  his  memory,  while  upon  his  mind 
fell  lovely  and  wonderful  impressions.  It  was  as  though 
the  subconsciousness  of  the  earth  herself  emerged  with  the 
spring,  producing  new  life,  new  splendour  everywhere.  Out 
of  a  single  patch  of  soil  the  various  roots  drew  material 
they  then  fashioned  into  such  different  and  complicated 
outlines  as  daisy,  lily,  rose,  and  a  hundred  types  of  tree. 
From  the  same  bit  of  soil  emerged  these  intricate  patterns 
and  designs,  these  different  forms.  At  this  very  moment, 
while  his  feet  left  dark  tracks  across  the  silvery  lawn,  the 
process  was  going  steadily  forward  all  over  England. 
Beneath  those  very  feet  up  rushed  the  power  into  all  con- 
ceivable bodies.  Colour,  music,  form,  marvellously  organ- 
ized, making  no  mistakes,  were  turning  the  world  into  a 
vast,  delicious  garden. 

Form,  colour,  sound!  From  his  own  hidden  region  rose 
again  the  flaming  hope  and  prophecy.  He  stooped  and 
picked  a  daisy,  examining  with  rapt  attention  its  perfect 
little  body.  Who,  what  made  this  astonishing  thing,  that 
was  yet  among  the  humbler  forms?  What  intelligence 
devised  its  elaborate  outline,  guarded,  cared  for,  tended  it, 
ensured  its  growth  and  welfare?  He  gazed  at  its  white 
rays  tipped  with  crimson,  its  several  hundred  florets,  its 
composite  design.  The  spring  life  had  been  pouring  through 
it  until  he  picked  it.  Through  the  huge  mass  of  earth's 
body  its  tiny  roots  had  drawn  the  life  it  needed.  This 
power  was  now  cut  off.  It  would  die.  The  process,  as 
with  everything  else,  was  "automatic  and  unintelligent!" 
It  seemed  an  incredible  explanation.  The  old  familiar  ques- 
tion troubled  him,  but  he  saw  it  abruptly  now  from  a  new 
angle. 

"We  built  it,"  came  a  voice  so  close  that  it  seemed  be- 
hind him,  for  when  at  first  he  turned,  startled,  and  yet 
not  startled,  he  saw  no  figure  standing;  "we  who  work 
in  darkness,  yet  who  never  die,  the  Hidden  Ones  who 
build  and  weave  inside  and  out  of  sight.  You  have  de- 
stroyed our  work  of  ages.  .  .  ." 


347 

A  pang  of  sudden  regret  and  anguish  seized  him.  He 
stood  still  and  stared  in  the  direction  whence  he  thought 
the  voice  had  come,  but  no  form,  no  outline,  no  body  that 
could  have  produced  a  sound,  a  voice,  was  visible.  A 
blackbird  flew  with  its  shrill  whistle  over  the  -enclosing  wall, 
and  the  gardener,  up  unusually  early,  was  now  moving 
slowly  past  the  elms  at  the  far  end,  some  two  hundred 
yards  away.  The  old  man,  he  remembered,  had  been  telling 
him  only  the  day  before  that  the  life  in  his  plants  this 
year  had  been  prodigious  and  successful  beyond  his  whole 
experience.  It  puzzled  him.  Something  of  reverence,  of 
superstition  almost,  had  lain  in  the  man's  voice  and  eyes. 

"Who  are  you?"  whispered  Fillery,  still  holding  the 
"dead"  broken  flower  in  his  hand  and  staring  about  him. 
He  was  aware  that  the  sound  from  which  the  voice  had 
come,  detaching  itself,  as  it  were,  into  articulate  syllables 
out  of  a  general  continuous  volume,  had  not  ceased.  It 
was  all  about  him,  softly  murmuring.  Was  it  in  himself 
perhaps?  An  intense  inner  activity,  like  the  pressure  o? 
an  enveloping  tide,  that  was  also  in  space,  in  the  soil,  the 
body  of  the  planet,  rose  in  him  too.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  that  his  mind  was  suddenly  in  process  of  being  shaped 
and  fashioned  into  a  new  "body  of  understanding";  a  new 
instrument  of  Qnderstan^mg. 

"  This  is  its  work  upon  the  things  ye  see : 

The  unseen  things  are  more;  men's  hearts  and  minds, 
The  thoughts  of  peoples  and  their  ways  and  wills, 
These,  too,  the  great  Law  binds." 

"I  know,"  he  exclaimed,  this  time  with  acceptance  that 
omitted  the  doubt  he  had  first  felt.  "I  know  who  you 
are"  .  .  .  and  even  as  he  said  the  words,  there  dropped 
into  him,  it  seemed,  some  knowledge,  some  hint,  some 
wonder  that  lay,  he  well  knew,  outside  all  human  experience. 
It  was  as  though  some  cosmic  power  brushed  gently  against 
and  through  his  being,  but  a  power  so  alien  to  known 
human  categories  that  to  attempt  its  expression  in 


348  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

human  terms — language,  reason,  imagination  even — were  to 
mutilate  it.  Yet,  even  for  its  partial,  broken  manifestation, 
human  terms  were  alone  available,  since  without  these  it 
must  remain  unperceived,  he  himself  unaware  of  its 
existence. 

He  was,  however,  aware  of  its  presence,  its  existence. 
All  that  was  left  to  him  therefore  was  his  own  personal 
interpretation.  Herein,  evidently,  lay  the  truth  for  him; 
this  was  the  meaning  of  his  "acceptance."  It  was,  in  some 
way,  a  renewal  of  that  other  vision  he  called  the  Flower 
Hill  and  Flower  Music  experience. 

"I  know  you,"  he  repeated,  his  voice  merging  curiously 
in  the  general  underlying  murmur  of  the  morning.  "You 
belong  to  the  bodiless,  the  deathless  ones  who  work  and 
build  and  weave  eternally.  Form,  sound,  colour  are  your 
instruments,  the  elements  your  tools.  You  wove  this 
flower,"  he  fingered  the  dying  daisy,  "as  you  also  shaped 
this  body" — he  tapped  his  breast — "and — you  built  as  well 
this  mind " 

He  stopped  dead.  Two  things  arrested  him:  the  feeling 
that  the  ideas  were  not  primarily  his  own,  but  derived  from 
a  source  outside  himself ;  and  a  sudden  intensification  of 
the  flaming  hope  and  prophecy  that  burst  up  as  with  new 
meaning  into  the  words  "mind"  and  "body." 

The  broken  body  of  the  flower  slipped  from  his  fingers 
and  fell  upon  the  body  of  the  earth.  He  looked  down  at 
its  now  empty  form  through  which  no  life  flowed,  and 
his  eye  passed  then  to  his  own  body  beating  with  intense 
activity,  and  thence  to  the  bodies  of  the  trees,  the  darting 
birds,  the  gigantic  sun  now  peering  magnificently  along  the 
heavens.  Body!  A  body  was  a  form  through  which  life 
expressed  itseTffa  vehicle  of  expression  by  means  of  which 
life  manifested,  an  instrument  it  used.  But  a  body  of 
thought  was  a  true  phrase  too.  And  with  the  words,  shaped 
automatically  in  his  brain,  a  new  light  flashed  and  flooded 
him  with  its  waves. 

"A  body  of  thought,  a  mental  body" — the  phrase  went 


THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER  349 

humming  and  flowing  strangely  through  him.  A  body  of 
thought!  Father  Collins,  he  remembered,  had  used  some 
such  wild  language,  only  it  had  seemed  empty  words  with- 
out intelligible  meaning.  Whence  came  the  intense  new 
meaning  that  so  suddenly  attached  itself  to  the  familiar 
phrase?  Whence  came  the  thrilling  deep  conviction  that 
new,  greater  knowledge  was  hovering  near,  and  that  for 
its  expression  a  new  body  must  be  devised  ?  And  what  was 
this  new  knowledge,  this  new  power?  Whence  came  the 
amazing  certainty  in  him  that  a  new  way  was  being  shown 
to  him,  a  means  of  progress  for  humanity  that  must  other- 
wise flounder  always  to  its  average  level  of  growth,  develop- 
ment, then  invariably  collapse  again? 

"We  built  it,"  ran  past  him  through  the  air  again,  or 
rose  perhaps  from  the  stirred  depths  of  his  own  subcon- 
scious being,  or  again,  dropped  from  a  hidden  rushing  star. 
"The  more  perfect  and  adequate  the  form,  the  greater  the 
ffowjjf  fiTef'oT  knowledge,  of  power  it  can  express.  No 
mind,  no  intellect,  can  convey  a  message  that  transcends 
human  experience.  Yet  there  is  a  way." 

The  new  knowledge  was  there,  if  only  the  new  vehicle 
suited  to  its  expression  could  be  devised.  .  .  . 

The  stream  of  life  pouring  through  him  became  more 
and  more  intense ;  some  power  of  perception  seemed  grow- 
ing into  white  heat  within  him;  transcending  the  limited 
senses ;  becoming  incandescent.  This  .tide  of  sound,  in- 
audible to  ordinary  ears,  was  thejmusic  which  isTnseparable 
from  the  rhythm  that  underlies  all  forms,  the  music  of  the 
earth's  manifold  activities  now  pouring"m  vibrations  huge 
and  tiny  all  round  and  through  him.  He  turned  instinc-/ 
tively. 

~You  .  ,  .  !"  exclaimed  the  doctor  in  him,  as  though 
rebuke,  reproval  stirred.  "You  here  ...  !" 

It  seemed  to  him  that  the  figure  of  "N.  H.,"  embodying 
as  it  were  a  ray  of  sunlight,  stood  beside  him. 

"We,"  came  the  answer,  with  a  smile  that  took  the 
sparkling  sunlight  through  the  very  face.  "We  are  all  about 


350  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

you,"  added  the  voice  with  a  rhythm  that  swamped  all 
denial,  all  objection,  bringing  an  exultant  exhilaration  in 
their  place.  "We  come  from  what  always  seems  to  you  a 
Valley  of  sun  and  flowers,  where  we  work  and  play  behind 
the  appearances  you  call  the  world." 

"The  world,"  repeated  Fillery.     "The  universe  as  well." 

The  voice,  the  illusion  of  actual  words,  both  died  away, 
merging  in  some  perplexing  fashion  into  another  appear- 
ance, perhaps  equally  an  illusion  so  far  as  the  senses  were 
concerned — the  phenomenon  men  call  sight.  Instead  of 
hearing,  that  is,  he  now  suddenly  saw.  Something  in  the 
arrangement  of  light  caught  his  attention,  holding  it.  The 
deep,  central  self  in  him,  that  which  interprets  and  de-codes 
the  reports  the  senses  bring,  employed  another  mode. 

The  figure  of  "N.  H."  still  was  definite  enough  in  form 
indeed,  yet  at  the  same  time  taking  the  rays  into  itself  as 
though  it  were  a  body  of  light.  There  was  no  transparency, 
of  course,  nor  was  this  clear  radiance  seen  by  Fillery  for 
the  first  time,  but  rather  that  his  natural  shining  was  caught 
up  and  intensified  by  the  morning  sunshine.  A  body  of 
light,  none  the  less,  seemed  a  true  description  of  what  Fillery 
now  saw.  This  sunshine  filled  the  air,  the  space  all  round 
him,  the  entire  lawn  and  garden  shone  in  a  sparkling  flood 
of  dancing  brilliance.  It  blazed.  The  figure  of  "N.  H." 
was  merely  a  portion  of  this  blazing.  As  a  focus,  but  one 
of  many,  he  now  thought  of  it.  And  about  each  focus  was 
the  toss  and  fling  of  lovely,  ever- rising  spirals. 

Across  the  main  stream  came  then  another  pulsing  move- 
ment, hardly  discernible  at  first,  and  similar  to  an  under- 
swell  that  moves  the  sea  against  the  wave — so  that  the  eye 
perceives  it  only  when  not  looking  for  it.  This  contrary 
motion,  it  soon  became  apparent,  went  in  numerous,  almost 
countless  directions,  so  that,  within  and  below  its  com- 
plicated wave-tracery,  he  was  aware  of  yet  other  motions, 
crossing  and  interlacing  at  various  speeds,  until  the  space 
about  him  seemed  to  whirl  with  myriad  rhythms,  yet  with- 


THE   BRIGHT  MESSENGER  351 

out  the  least  confusion.  These  rhythms  were  of  a  hundred 
different  magnitudes,  from  the  very  tiny  to  the  gigantic, 
and  while  the  smallest  were  of  a  radiant  brilliance  that 
made  the  sunshine  pale,  the  larger  ones  seemed  distant, 
their  light  of  an  intenser  quality,  though  of  a  quality  he  had 
never  seen  before.  These  were  strangely  diffused,  these 
bigger  ones — "distant"  was  the  word  that  occurred  to  him, 
although  that  inner  brilliance  which  occurs  in  dreams,  in 
imaginative  moments,  the  nameless  glow  that  colours  mental 
vision,  described  them  better.  Moreover  they  wore  colours 
the  human  eye  had  never  seen,  while  the  smallest  rhythms 
were  lit  with  the  familiar  colours  of  the  prism. 

He  stood  absorbed,  fascinated,  drinking  in  the  amazing 
spectacle,  as  though  the  glowing  spirals  of  fire  communi- 
cated to  his  inmost  being  a  heat  and  glory  of  creative  power. 
He  was  aware  of  the  creative  stream  of  spring  in  his  own 
heart,  pouring  from  the  body  of  the  earth  on  which  he 
stood,  drenching  mind,  nerves  and  even  muscles  with 
concentrated  life.  His  subconscious  being  rose  and 
stretched  its  wings.  All,  all  was  possible.  A  sensation  of 
divine  deathlessness  possessed  mm.  The  limitations  of  his 
ofdirrary  human  faculties  and  powers  were  overborne,  so 
that  he  felt  he  could  never  again  face  the  mournful  prison 
that  caged  him  in.  The jneaning  of  escape  became  pjain 
to  him. 
~TTe~saw  the  invisible  building  Intelligences  at  work. 

He  was  aware  then  suddenly  of  purpose,  of  intention. 
The  seeming  welter  of  the  waves  of  coloured  light,  of  the 
immense  and  tiny  rhythms,  the  intricate  streams  of  vibrat- 
ing, pulsing,  throbbing  movements  were,  he  now  perceived, 
marvellously  co-ordinated.  There  was  a  focus,  a  vortex, 
towards,  which  all  rushed  with  a  power  so  prodigious  that 
a  sense  of  terror  touched  him.  He  suddenly  became  con- 
scious of  a  pattern  forming  before  his  eyes,  hanging  in 
empty  space,  shining,  soft  with  light  and  beauty.  It  be- 
came, he  saw,  a  geometric  design.  An  idea  of  crystals, 


352  THE   BRIGHT   MESSENGER 

frost-forms,  a  spider's  web  hung  with  glistening  dewdrops 
shot  across  his  memory.  The  spirals  whirled  and  sang 
about  it. 

This  outline,  he  next  perceived,  was  the  focus  to  which 
the  light,  heat,  colour  all  contributed  their  particular  touch 
and  quality.  It  glowed  now  in  the  centre  of  the  vortex. 
So  overwhelming,  however,  was  the  sense  of  the  stupendous 
power  involved  that,  as  he  phrased  it  afterwards,  it  seemed 
he  watched  the  formation  of  some  mighty  sun.  It  was  the 
whirling  of  those  billion-miled  sheets  of  incandescent  fires 
that  attend  the  birth  of  a  nebula  he  watched.  The  power, 
at  any  rate,  was  gigantic. 

He  stood  trembling  before  a  revelation  that  left  him  lost, 
shelterless,  bereft  of  any  help  that  his  little  self  might  sum- 
mon— when,  suddenly,  with  an  emotion  of  strange  tender- 
ness, he  saw  the  great  rhythms  become  completely  domi- 
nated by  the  very  smallest  of  all.  The  same  instant  the 
pattern  grew  sharply  outlined,  perfect  in  every  detail,  as 
though  the  focus  of  powerful  glasses  cleared — and  the  pat- 
tern hung  a  moment  exquisitely  fashioned  in  space  beneath 
his  eyes  before  it  sank  slowly  to  the  ground.  It  remained 
in  an  upright  position  on  the  grass  at  his  feet — a  daisy, 
growing  in  the  earth,  alive,  its  tiny  delicate  face  taking  the 
sunlight  and  the  morning  wind. 

With  a  shock  he  then  realized  another  thing:  it  was  the 
very  daisy  he  had  broken,  uprooted,  killed  a  few  minutes 
before. 

He  stooped,  one  hand  outstretched  as  though  to  finger 
its  wee  white  petals,  but  found  instead  that  he  was  listen- 
ing— listening  to  a  sweet  faint  music  that  rose  from  the 
surface  of  the  lawn,  from  grass  and  flowers,  running  in 
waves  and  circles,  like  the  vibrations  of  gentle  wind  across 
a  thousand  strings.  It  was  similar,  though  less  in  volume, 
to  the  sound  he  had  heard  in  the  presence  of  "N.  H."  He 
rose  slowly  to  an  upright  position,  dazed,  bewildered,  yet 
rapt  with  the  wonder  of  the  whole  experience. 

"N.  H.  !"  he  heard  his  voice  exclaim,  its  sound  merging 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  353 

in  the  growing  volume  of  music  all  about  him.  "N.  H.  !" 
he  cried  again.  "This  is  your  work,  your  service  ...  !" 

But  he  could  not  see  him;  his  figure  was  no  longer 
differentiated  from  the  ever-moving  sea  of  light  that  filled 
space  wherever  he  looked.  The  same  play  of  brilliance 
shone  and  glistened  everywhere,  whirling,  ever  shifting  as 
in  vortices  of  intricate  geometrical  designs,  dancing,  inter- 
penetrating, and  with  a  magnificence  of  colour  that  caught 
his  breath  away.  There  were  remarkable  flashings,  and 
two  of  these  flashings  blazed  suddenly  together,  forming  an 
immense  physiognomy,  an  expression,  rather,  as  of  a 
mighty  face.  The  same  instant  there  were  a  hundred  of 
these  mighty  brilliant  visages  that  pierced  through  the  sea 
of  whirling  colour  and  gazed  upon  him,  close,  terrific,  with 
a  power  and  beauty  that  left  thought  without  even  a  ghost 
of  language  to  describe  them.  Their  glory  lay  beyond  all 
earthly  terms.  He  recognized  them.  These  mighty  outlines 
he  had  seen  before. 

His  mind  then  made  an  effort ;  he  tried  to  think ;  memory 
and  reason  strove  with  emotion  and  sensation.  The  forms, 
the  faces,  the  powers  at  once  grew  fainter.  They  faded 
slowly.  The  whirling  vortices  withdrew  in  some  extra- 
ordinary way,  the  colour  paled,  the  sound  grew  thinner, 
ever  more  distant,  the  great  weaving  designs  dissolved.  The 
lovely  spirals  all  were  gone.  He  saw  the  garden  trees  again, 
the  flower  beds.  Space  emptied,  showing  the  morning  sun- 
shine on  roofs  and  chimney-pots. 

"We  have  rebuilt,  remade  it,"  he  heard  faintly,  but  he 
heard  also  the  roar  and  boom  of  the  gigantic  rhythms  as 
they  withdrew,  not  spatially,  so  much  as  from  his  con- 
sciousness that  was  now  contracting  once  more,  till  only 
the  fainter  sounds  of  the  smaller  singing  patterns,  the 
Flower  Music  as  he  had  come  to  call  it,  reached  his  ears. 
Words  and  music,  like  voices  known  in  dreams,  seemed 
interwoven.  He  remembered  the  huge  faces,  with  their 
bright  confidence  and  glory,  rising  through  the  sunlight, 
peering  as  through  a  mirror  at  him,  radiant  and  of  imperish- 


354  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

able  beauty.  The  words,  perhaps,  he  attached  himself,  his 
own  interpretations  of  their  ringing  motions. 

The  sounds  died  away.  He  reeled.  The  expansion  and 
subsequent  contraction  of  consciousness  had  been  too  rapid, 
the  whole  experience  too  intense.  He  swayed,  unsure  of 
his  own  identity.  He  remembered  vaguely  that  tears  filled 
his  eyes  and  rolled  down  his  cheeks,  that  the  destruction 
of  a  lovely  form  had  caused  him  a  peculiar  anguish,  and 
that  its  recreation  produced  an  intolerable  joy,  bringing 
tears  of  happiness.  An  arm  caught  him  as  he  swayed. 
The  accents  of  a  voice  he  knew  were  audible  close  beside 
him.  But  at  first  he  did  not  understand  the  words,  feeling 
only  a  dull  pain  they  caused. 

"Their  imperishable  beauty!  Their  divine  loveliness!" 
he  stammered,  recognizing  the  face  and  voice.  He  flung 
his  arms  wide,  gazing  into  the  now  empty  air  above  the 
London  garden.  "The  great  service  they  eternally  fulfil 

— oh,  that  we  all  might "  He  made  a  gesture  towards 

the  other  houses  with  their  sightless,  shuttered  windows. 

"I  know,  I  know,"  came  in  the  familiar  tones.  "But 
come  in  now,  come  in,  Edward,  with  me.  I  beg  you — 
before  it  is  too  late."  Paul  Devonham's  voice  shook  so  that 
it  was  hardly  recognizable.  The  skin  of  his  face  was  white. 
He  wore  a  haggard  look. 

"Too  late!"  repeated  the  other;  "it  is  always  too  late. 
The  world  will  never  see.  Their  eyes  are  blinded."  An 
intolerable  emotion  swept  him.  He  stared  suddenly  at  his 
colleague,  an  immense  surprise  in  him.  "But  you,  Paul!" 
he  exclaimed.  "You  understand!  Even  you !" 

Devonham  led  him  slowly  into  the  house.  There  was 
protection  in  his  manner,  in  voice  and  gesture  there  was 
deep  affection,  respect  as  well,  but  behind  and  through 
these  flickered  the  signs  of  another  unmistakable  emotion 
that  Fillery  at  first  could  hardly  credit — of  pity,  was  it? 
Of  something  at  any  rate  he  dared  not  contemplate. 

"Even  I,"  came  in  quick,  low  tones,  "even  I,  Edward, 
understand.  You  forget.  I  was  once  alone  with  him" — 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  355 

the  voice  sank  to  a  rapid  whisper — "in  the  mountain  valley." 
Devonham's  expression  was  curious.  He  raised  his  tone 
again.  "But — not  now,  not  now,  I  beg  of  you.  Not  yet, 
at  any  rate.  You  will  be  cast  out,  judged  insane,  your  work 

destroyed,  your  career  ruined,  your  reputation "  His 

excitement  betrayed  itself  in  his  bright  eyes  and  unusual 
gestures.  He  was  shaken  to  the  core.  Fillery  turned  upon 
him.  They  were  in  the  corridor  now.  He  flung  his  arm 
free  of  the  restraining  hand. 

"You  know!"  he  cried,  "yet  would  keep  silent!"  His 
voice  choked.  "You  saw  what  I  saw:  new  sources  open, 
the  offer  made,  the  channels  accessible  at  our  very  door, 
yet  you  would  refuse " 

"Not  one  in  ten  million,"  came  the  hard  rejoinder, 
"would  believe."  The  voice  trembled.  "We  have  no  proof. 
Their  laws  of  manifestation  are  unknown  to  us,  and  such 
glimpses  are  but  glimpses — useless  and  dangerous."  He 
whispered  suddenly:  "Besides — what  are  they?  What, 
after  all,  are  we  dealing  with? 

"We  can  experiment,"  interrupted  his  companion 
quickly. 

"How?    Of  what  possible  value?" 

"You  felt  what  I  felt?  In  your  own  being  you  ex- 
perienced the  revelation  too,  and  yet  you  use  such  words! 
New  forces,  new  faculties,  Beings  from  another  order  oT 
incalculable  powers  to  ennoble,  to  bless,  to  inspire!  The 
creation  of  higher  forms  through  which  new,  greater  life 
and  knowledge,  shall  manifest!" 

He  could  hardly  find  the  words  he  sought,  so  bright  was 
the  hope  and  wonder  in  his  heart  still.  "Think — at  a 
time  like  this — what  humanity  might  gain.  Creative  powers, 
Paul,  creative !  Acting  directly  on  the  subconscious  selves 
of  everybody,  intensifying  every  individual,  whether  he 
understands  and  believes  or  not!  The  gods,  Paul — and 
nothing  less You  saw  the  daisy " 

Devonham  seized  both  of  his  companion's  hands,  as  he 
heard  the  torrent  of  wild,  incoherent  words :  "You'll  have 


356  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

the  entire  world  against  you,"  he  interrupted.  "Why  seek 
crucifixion  for  a  dream?"  Then,  as  his  hands  were  again 
flung  off,  he  turned,  a  ringer  suddenly  on  his  lips.  "Hush, 
hush,  Edward !"  he  whispered.  "The  house  is  sleeping  still. 
You'll  wake  them  all." 

There  was  a  new,  strange  authority  about  him.  Dr. 
Fillery  controlled  himself.  They  went  upstairs  on  tiptoe. 

"Listen !"  murmured  Devonham,  as  they  reached  the  first- 
floor  landing.  "That's  what  woke  me  first  and  led  me 
to  his  room,  but  only  to  find  it  empty.  He  was  already 
gone.  I  saw  him  join  you  on  the  lawn.  I  watched  from 
the  open  window.  Then — I  lost  him.  .  .  .  Listen!"  He 
was  trembling  like  a  child. 

The  sound  still  echoed  faintly,  distant,  rising  and  falling, 
sweet  and  very  lovely,  and  hardly  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  musical  hum  of  wind  that  sighs  and  whispers  across 
the  strings  of  an  aeolian  harp.  To  one  man  came  incredible 
sensations  as  they  paused  a  moment.  Dim  though  the  land- 
ing was,  there  still  seemed  a  tender  luminous  glow  pervad- 
ing it. 

"They're  everywhere,"  murmured  Fillery,  "everywhere 
and  always  about  us,  though  in  different  space.  Through 
and  behind  and  inside  everything  that  happens,  helping, 
building,  constructing  ceaselessly.  Oh,  Paul,  how  can  you 
doubt  and  question  value?  Behind  every  single  form  and 
body,  physical  or  mental,  they  operate  divinely " 

"Mental !    Edward,  for  God's  sake " 

Devonham  stepped  nearer  to  him  with  such  abruptness 
that  his  companion  stopped.  The  pallor  of  the  assistant's 
face  so  close  arrested  his  words  a  moment.  They  held 
their  breath,  listening  together  side  by  side.  The  sounds 
grew  fainter,  died  away  in  the  stillness  of  the  early  morn- 
ing, then  ceased  altogether.  It  was  not  the  first  time  they 
had  listened  thus  to  the  strange  music,  nor  was  it  the  first 
time  that  Fillery  entered  the  room  alone.  As  once  before, 
his  colleague  remained  outside,  watching,  waiting,  half 
seduced,  it  seemed,  yet  vehemently  against  a  sympathetic 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  357 

attitude.  He  watched  his  chief  go  in,  he  saw  the  expression 
on  his  face.  Upon  his  own,  behind  a  mild  expectancy,  lay 
a  look  of  pain. 

"Empty !"    He  heard  the  startled  exclamation. 

And  instantly  Devonham  was  at  his  side,  a  firm  hand 
upon  his  arm,  his  eyes  taking  in  an  unused  bed,  a  window 
opened  wide,  a  glow  of  light  and  heat  the  early  sunshine 
could  not  possibly  explain.  The  perfume,  as  of  flowers 
in  the  air,  he  noted  too,  and  a  sense  of  lightness,  fresh- 
ness, sweetness  about  the  atmosphere  that  produced  hap- 
piness, exhilaration.  The  room  throbbed,  as  it  were,  with 
invisible  waves  of  some  communicable  power  even  he  could 
not  deny.  But  of  "N.  H.,"  the  recent  occupant,  there  was 
no  sign. 

"In  the  garden  still.  I  lost  sight  of  him  somehow.  I 
told  you." 

Fillery  crossed  quickly  to  the  window,  his  colleague  with 
him,  looking  out  upon  a  lawn  and  paths  that  held  no  figure 
anywhere.  The  gardener  was  not  in  sight.  Only  the  birds 
were  visible  among  the  daisies.  The  quiet  sunlight  lay  as 
usual  upon  leaves  and  flowers  waving  in  the  breeze.  "He 
came  in,"  Fillery  went  on  rapidly  under  his  breath.  "He 
must  have  slipped  back  when " 

The  sound  of  steps  and  voices  behind  them  in  the  corridor 
brought  both  men  round  with  a  quick  movement,  as  Nurse 
Robbins,  her  arm  linked  in  that  of  "N.  H.,"  stood  in  the 
open  doorway.  Her  face  was  radiant,  her  eyes  alight,  her 
breath  came  unevenly,  and  one  might  have  thought  her 
caught  midway  in  some  ecstatic  dance  that  still  left  its  joy 
and  bliss  stamped  on  her  pretty  face.  Only  she  looked 
more  than  pretty ;  there  was  beauty,  a  fairy  loveliness  about 
her  that  betrayed  an  intense  experience  of  some  inner  kind. 

At  the  sight  of  the  two  doctors  she  rapidly  composed 
herself,  leading  her  companion  quietly  into  the  room.  "He 
was  upstairs,  sir,"  she  said  respectfully  but  breathlessly 
somewhat,  and  addressing  herself,  Fillery  noticed,  to  Devon- 
ham  and  not  to  himself.  "He  was  going  from  room  to  room, 


358  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

talking  to  the  patients — er — singing  to  them.  It  was  the 
singing  woke  me " 

"Upstairs!"  exclaimed  Devonham.  "He  has  been  up 
there!" 

She  broke  off  as  Fillery  came  forward  and  took  "N.  H." 
by  the  hands,  dismissing  her  with  a  gesture  she  was  quick 
to  understand.  Devonham  went  with  her  hurriedly,  intent 
upon  a  personal  inspection  at  once. 

"Your  service  called  you,"  said  Fillery  quietly,  the  moment 
they  were  alone.  "I  understand!"  Through  the  contact 
of  the  hands  waves  of  power  entered  him,  it  seemed.  About 
the  face  was  light,  as  though  fire  glowed  behind  the  very 
skin  and  eyes,  producing  the  effect  almost  of  a  halo. 

"They  came  for  me,  and  I  must  go."  The  voice  was 
deep  and  wonderful,  with  prolonged  vibrations.  "I  have 
found  my  own.  I  must  return  where  my  service  needs  me, 
for  here  I  can  do  so  little." 

"To  your  own  place  where  you  are  ruler  of  your  fate," 
the  other  said  slowly.  "Here  you " 

"Here,"  came  the  quick  interruption,  while  the  voice  lost 
its  resonance,  fading  as  it  were  in  sadness,  "here  I — die." 
Even  the  radiance  of  his  face,  although  he  smiled,  dimmed 
a  little  on  that  final  word.  "I  can  help  where  I  belong — 
not  here."  The  light  returned,  the  music  came  back  into 
the  amazing  voice. 

"The  daisy,"  whispered  Fillery,  joy  rising  in  him 
strangely. 

"Nature,"  floated  through  the  air  like  music,  "is  my 
place.  With  human  beings  I  cannot  work.  It  is  too  much, 
and  I  only  should  destroy.  They  are  not  ready  yet,  for 
our  great  rhythms  injure  them,  and  they  cannot  under- 
stand." 

Trembling  with  emotions  he  could  neither  define  nor 
control,  Fillery  led  him  to  the  window. 

"Even  in  this  little  back-garden  of  a  London  house,"  he 
murmured,  "among,  so  to  speak,  the  humble  buttercups  and 
daisies  of  our  life!  The  creative  Intelligences  at  work, 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  359 

building,  ever  building  the  best  forms  they  can.  You  re- 
make a  broken  daisy" — his  voice  rose,  as  the  great  shining 
face  so  close  lit  with  its  flaming  smile — "you  re-make  as 
well  our  broken  minds.  In  the  subconscious  hides  our 
creative  power  that  you  stimulate.  It  is  with  that  and  that 
alone  you  work.  It  hides  in  all  of  us,  though  the  artist 
alone  perceives  or  can  use  it.  It  is  with  that  you  work " 

"With  you,  dear  Fillery,  I  can  work,  for  you  help  me 
to  remember.  You  feel  the  big  rhythms  that  we  bring." 

Dr.  Fillery  started,  peered  about  him,  listened  hard.  Was 
it  the  trees,  shaking  in  the  morning  wind,  that  rustled? 
Was  it  a  voice?  The  dancing  leaves  reflected  the  sunshine 
from  a  thousand  facets.  The  sound  accompanied,  rather 
than  interrupted,  his  own  speech.  He  turned  back  to  "N. 
H."  with  passionate  enthusiasm. 

"Using  beauty — the  artists — the  creative  powers  of  the 
Race,"  he  went  on,  "we  shall  create  together  a  new  body, 
a  new  vehicle,  through  which  your  powers  can  express 
themselves.  The  intellect  cannot  serve  you  ...  it  is  the 
creative  imagination  of  those  who  know  beauty  that  you 
seek.  You  are  inarticulate  in  this  wretched  body.  We  shall 
make  a  new  one " 

"They  have  come  for  me  and  I  must  go n 

"We  will  work  together.    Oh,  stay — stay  with  me !** 

"I  have  found  the  way.  I  have  remembered.  I  must  go 
back " 

The  wind  died  down,  the  leaves  stopped  rustling,  the  sun- 
shine seemed  to  pale  as  though  a  cloud  passed  over  the  sky. 
The  words  he  had  heard  resolved  themselves  into  the  morn- 
ing sounds,  the  singing  of  the  birds.  Had  they  been  words 
at  all?  Bewilderment,  like  a  pain,  rushed  over  him.  He 
knew  himself  suddenly  imprisoned,  caught. 

"I  have  remembered,"  he  heard  in  quiet  tones,  but  the 
voice  dead,  no  resonance,  no  music  in  it.  And  across  the 
room  he  saw  suddenly  Paul  Devonham  just  inside  the  door, 
returned  from  his  inspection.  Beside  him  stood — LeVallon. 

An  extraordinary  reaction  instantly  took  place  in  him. 


360  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

A  lid  was  raised,  a  shutter  lifted,  a  wall  fell  flat.  He 
hardly  knew  how  to  describe  it.  Was  it  due  to  the  look  of 
anxiety,  of  tenderness,  of  affectionate,  of  protective  care 
he  saw  plainly  upon  his  colleague's  face?  He  could  not 
say.  He  only  knew  for  certain  in  that  instant  that  Paul 
Devonham's  main  preoccupation  was  with — himself;  that 
the  latter  regarded  him  exactly  as  he  regarded  any  other 
— yes,  that  was  the  only  word — any  other  patient;  that  he 
looked  after  him,  tended,  guarded,  cared  for  him — and  that 
this  watchful,  experienced  observation  had  been  going  on 
now  for  a  long,  long  time. 

The  authority  in  his  manner  became  abruptly  clear  as 
day.  Devonham  watched  over  him;  also  he  watched  him. 
For  days,  for  weeks,  this  had  been  his  attitude.  For  the 
first  time,  in  this  instant,  as  he  saw  him  lead  away  LeVallon 
into  his  own  room  and  close  the  door,  Fillery  now  perceived 
this.  He  experienced  a  violent  revulsion  of  mind.  In  a 
flash  a  hundred  details  of  the  recent  past  occurred  to  him, 
chief  among  them  the  fact  that,  more  and  more,  the  con- 
trol of  the  Home  and  its  occupants  had  been  taken  over, 
Fillery  himself  only  too  willing,  by  his  assistant.  A  moment 
of  appalling  doubt  rose  like  a  black  cloud.  .  .  . 

He  heard  Paul  telling  LeVallon  to  begin  his  breakfast, 
just  as  the  door  closed,  and  he  noted  the  authoritative 
tone  of  voice.  The  next  minute  he  and  his  colleague  were 
alone  together. 

"Paul,"  said  the  chief  quickly,  but  with  a  calm  assurance 
that  anticipated  a  favourable  answer,  "they,  at  any  rate, 
are  all  right?" 

Devonham  nodded  his  head.  "No  harm  done,"  he  replied 
briefly.  "In  fact,  as  you  know,  he  rather  stimulates  them 
than  otherwise." 

"I  know." 

He  felt,  for  the  first  time  in  their  years  of  close  relation- 
ship, a  breath  of  suspicion  enter  him.  There  was  a  look 
upon  his  colleague's  face  he  could  not  quite  define.  It 
baffled  him. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  361 


"Of  course,  I  know- 


He  stopped,  for  the  undecipherable  look  had  strengthened 
suddenly.  He  thought  of  a  gaoler. 

"Paul,"  he  said  quickly,  "what's  the  matter?  What's 
wrong  with  you?" 

He  drew  back  a  pace  or  two  and  watched  him. 

"With  me — nothing,  Edward.  Nothing  at  all."  The  tone 
was  grave  with  anxiety,  yet  had  this  new  authority  in  it. 

A  feeling  of  intolerable  insecurity  came  upon  him,  a  sen~ 
sation  as  though  he  balanced  on  air,  yet  its  cause,  its  origin, 
easily  explained:  the  support  of  his  colleague's  mind  was 
taken  from  him.  Paul's  attitude  was  clear  as  day  to  him. 
He  was  a  gaoler.  .  .  .  He  recalled  again  the  recent  detail, 
brightly  significant — that  Nurse  Robbins  had  turned  to  Paul, 
rather  than  to  himself. 

"With — me,  then — you  think  ?"  His  voice  hardly  sounded 
like  his  own.  He  looked  about  him  for  support,  found  an 
arm-chair,  sat  down  in  it.  "You're  strange,  Paul,  very 
strange,"  he  whispered.  "What  do  you  mean  by  'there's 
something  wrong  with  me'?" 

Devonham's  expression  cleared  slightly  and  a  kindly, 
sympathetic  smile  appeared,  then  vanished.  The  grave  look 
that  Fillery  disliked  reappeared. 

"What  d'you  mean,  Paul  Devonham?"  came  the  repeti- 
tion, in  a  louder,  more  challenging  voice.  "You're  watching 
me — as  though  I  were" — he  laughed  without  a  trace  of 
mirth — "a  patient."  He  leaned  forward.  "Paul,  you've 
been  watching  me  for  a  long  time.  Out  with  it,  now.  What 
is  it?" 

Devonham,  who  had  kept  silent,  drew  some  papers  from 
his  pocket,  a  bundle  of  rolled  sheets. 

"Of  course,"  he  said  gently,  "I  always  watch  you.  For 
that's  how  I  learn.  I  learn  from  you,  Edward,  more  than 
from  anybody  I  know." 

But  Dr.  Fillery,  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  sheaf  of  papers, 
had  recognized  them.  His  own  writing  was  visible  along 
the  uneven  edges.  They  were  the  description  he  had  set 


362  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

down  of  his  adventure  on  Flower  Hill,  of  the  scenes  be- 
tween "N.  H."  and  Lady  Gleeson,  between  "N.  H."  and 
Nayan,  the  autobiographical  description  with  "N.  H."  and 
Nurse  Robbins  soon  after  his  arrival,  when  Fillery  had  so 
amazingly  found  his  own  mind — as  he  believed — identified 
with  his  patient's. 

Devonham  snapped  off  the  elastic  band  that  held  the 
sheaf  together.  "Edward,  I've  read  them.  We  have  no 
secrets,  of  course.  I've  read  them  carefully.  Every  word — 
my  dear  fellow." 

"Yes,  yes,"  replied  the  other,  while  something  in  him 
wavered  horribly.  "I'm  glad.  They  were  meant  for  you  to 
read,  for  of  course  we  have  no  secrets.  I — I  do  not  expect 
you  to  agree.  We  have  never  quite  seen  eye  to  eye — have 
we?"  His  voice  shook.  "You  terrible  iconoclast,"  he 
added,  betraying  thus  the  nature  of  the  fear  that  changed 
his  voice,  then  recognizing  with  vexation  that  he  had  done 
so.  "You  believe  nothing.  You  never  will  believe  anything. 
You  cannot  understand.  With  joy  you  would  destroy  what 
I  and  others  believe — wouldn't  you,  Paul ?" 

The  deep  sadness,  the  gravity  on  the  face  in  front  of  him 
stopped  the  tirade. 

"I  would  save  you,  Edward,"  came  the  earnest,  gentle 
words,  "from  yourself.  The  powers  of  auto-suggestion,  as 
we  know  in  our  practice — don't  we? — are  limitless.  If  you 
call  that  destroying " 

From  the  adjoining  room  the  clatter  of  knives  and  forks 
was  audible.  Dr.  Fillery  listened  a  moment  with  a  smile. 

"Paul,"  he  asked,  his  voice  firm  and  sure  again,  "is  your 
chief  patient  in  that  room,"  indicating  the  door  with  his 
head,  "or— in  this?" 

"In  this,"  was  the  reply.  "A  wise  man  is  always  his  own 
patient  and  'Physician,  heal  thyself  his  motto."  He  sat 
down  beside  his  chief.  His  manner  changed;  there  was 
affection,  deep  solicitude,  something  of  passionate  entreaty 
even  in  voice  and  eyes  and  gestures.  "There  are  features 
here,"  he  said  in  lowered  tones,  "Edward,  we  have  not 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  363 

understood,  perhaps  even  we  can  never  understand ;  but  we 
have  not,  I  think,  sufficiently  guarded  against  one  thing — 
auto-suggestion.  The  role  it  plays  in  life  is  immense,  in- 
calculable; it  is  in  everything  we  do  and  think,  above  all  in 
everything  we  believe.  It  is  peculiarly  powerful  and  active 
in — er — unusual  things " 

"The  sound — the  sounds — you've  heard  them  yourself," 
broke  in  his  companion. 

Devonham  shrugged  his  thin  shoulders.  "He  sings — in  a 
peculiar  way."  As  an  aside,  he  said  it,  returning  to  his 
main  sermon  instantly.  "Let  us  leave  details  out,"  he  cried ; 
"it  is  the  principle  that  concerns  us.  Edward,  your  complex 
against  humanity  lies  hard  and  rigid  in  you  still.  It  has 
never  found  that  full  recognition  by  yourself  which  can 
resolve  it.  Your  work,  your  noble  work,  is  but  a  partial 
expression.  The  kernel  of  this  old  complex  in  you  remains 
unrelieved,  undischarged — because  still  unrecognized.  And, 
further,  you  are  continually  adding  to  the  repression  which" 
— even  Devonham  paused  a  second  before  using  such  a 
word  to  such  a  man — "is  poisoning  you,  Edward,  poisoning 
you,  I  repeat." 

"You  saw — you  saw  the  rebuilding  of — the  daisy" — an 
odd  whisper  of  insecurity  ran  through  the  quiet  words,  a 
statement  rather  than  a  question — "you  realize,  at  any  rate, 
that  chance  has  brought  us  into  contact  with  Powers, 
creative  Powers,  of  a  new  order " 

"Let  us  omit  all  details  just  now,"  interrupted  the  other, 
a  troubled,  indecipherable  look  on  his  face.  "The  un- 
doubted telepathy  between  your  mind  and  mine  nullifies 
any  such " 

" powers  of  which  we  all  have  some  faint  counter- 
part, at  any  rate,  in  our  subliminal  selves."  Fillery  had  not 
heard  the  interruption.  "Powers  by  means  of  which  we 
may  build  for  the  Race  new  forms,  new  mental  bodies,  new 
vehicles  for  life,  for  God,  to  manifest  through — more  per- 
fect, more  receptive " 

Devonham  had  suddenly  seized  both  his  hands  and  was 


364  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

leaning  closer  to  him.  Something  compelling,  authoritative, 
peculiarly  convincing  for  a  moment  had  its  undeniable 
effect,  again  stopping  the  flow  of  hurried,  passionate,  eager 
words. 

"There  is  one  new  form,  new  body,"  and  the  intensity  in 
voice  and  eyes  drove  the  meaning  deep,  deep  into  his  lis- 
tener's mind  and  heart.  "I  wish  to  see  you  build.  One,  and 
one  only — physical,  mental,  spiritual.  But  you  cannot  build 
it,  Edward — alone!" 

"Paul !"  The  other  held  up  a  warning  hand ;  the  expres- 
sion in  his  eyes  was  warning  too.  Their  effect  upon  Devon- 
ham,  however,  was  nil.  He  was  talking  with  a  purpose 
nothing  could  alter. 

"She  is  still  waiting  for  you,"  he  went  on  with  determina- 
tion, "and  already  you  have  kept  her  waiting — overlong." 
In  the  tone,  in  the  hard  clear  eyes  as  well,  lay  a  suggestion 
almost  of  tears. 

He  opened  the  door  into  the  breakfast-room,  but  Fillery 
caught  his  arm  and  stopped  him.  They  could  hear  Nurse 
Robbins  speaking,  as  she  attended  as  usual  to  her  patient's 
wants.  Coffee  was  being  poured  out.  There  was  a  sound 
of  knives  and  plates  and  cups. 

"One  minute,  Paul,  one  minute  before  we  go  in."  He 
drew  him  aside.  "And  what,  Doctor  Devonham,  may  I  ask, 
would  you  prescribe?"  There  was  a  curious  mixture  of 
gentle  sarcasm,  of  pity,  of  patient  tolerance,  yet  at  the  same 
time  of  sincere,  even  anxious,  interest  in  the  question.  The 
face  and  manner  betrayed  that  he  waited  for  the  answer 
with  something  more  than  curiosity. 

There  was  no  hesitancy  in  Devonham.  He  judged  the 
moment  ripe,  perhaps ;  he  was  aware  that  his  words  would 
be  listened  to,  appreciated,  understood  certainly,  and  pos- 
sibly, obeyed. 

"Expression,"  he  said  convincingly,  but  in  a  lowered 
voice.  "The  fullest  expression,  everywhere  and  always. 
Let  it  all  come.  Accept  the  lot,  believe  the  lot,  welcome 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  365 

the  lot,  and  thus" — he  could  not  conceal  the  note  of  passion- 
ate entreaty,  of  deep  affection — "avoid  every  atom  of 
repression.  In  the  end — in  the  long  run — your  own  best 
judgment  must  prevail." 

They  smiled  into  each  other's  eyes  for  a  moment  in 
silence,  while,  instinctively  and  automatically,  their  hands 
joined  in  a  steady  clasp. 

"Bless  you,  old  fellow,"  murmured  the  chief.  "As  if  I 
didn't  know !  It's  the  treatment  you've  been  trying  on  me 
for  weeks  and  months.  As  if  I  hadn't  noticed !" 

As  they  entered  the  breakfast-room,  Nurse  Robbins,  with 
flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes,  was  pouring  out  the  coffee, 
leaning  close  over  her  patient's  shoulder  as  she  did  so. 
Fresh  roses  were  in  her  cheeks  as  well  as  on  the  table. 

"This  is  its  touch  upon  the  blossomed  maid,"  whispered 
Fillery,  with  the  quick  hint  of  humour  that  belongs  only  to 
the  sane.  At  the  same  time  the  light  remark  was  produced, 
he  well  knew,  by  a  part  of  himself  that  sought  to  remain 
veiled  from  recognition.  Any  other  triviality  would  have 
done  as  well  to  cloak  the  sharp  pain  that  swept  him,  and  to 
lead  his  listener  astray.  For  in  that  instant,  as  they  entered, 
he  saw  at  the  table  not  "N.  H.,"  but  LeVallon— the  back- 
ward, ignorant,  commonplace  LeVallon,  an  empty,  untaught 
personality,  yet  so  receptive  that  anything — anything — 
could  be  transferred  to  him  by  a  strong,  vivid  mind,  a  mind, 
for  instance,  like  his  own.  .  .  . 

The  sight,  for  a  swift  instant,  was  intolerable  and  dev- 
astating. He  balanced  again  on  air  that  gave  him  no  sup- 
port. He  wavered,  almost  swayed.  "N.  H.,"  in  that 
horrible  and  painful  second,  did  not  exist,  and  never  had 
existed.  The  unstable  mind,  he  comforted  himself,  ex- 
periences dislocating  extremes  of  attitude  .  .  .  for,  at  the 
same  time  as  he  saw  himself  shaking  and  wavering  without 
solid  support,  he  saw  the  figure  of  Paul  Devonham,  big, 
important,  authoritative,  dominating  the  uncertainties  of 
life  with  calm,  steady  power. 


366  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

In  a  fraction  of  a  second  all  this  came  and  went.  He  sat 
down  beside  LeVallon,  his  eyes  still  twinkling  with  his 
trivial  little  joke. 

"  'N.  H./  "  he  whispered  to  Devonham  quickly,  "has — 
escaped  at  last." 

"LeVallon,"  came  the  whispered  reply  as  quickly,  "is 
cured  at  last."  And,  to  conceal  an  intolerable  rush  of  pain, 
of  loss,  of  loneliness  that  threatened  tears,  he  pointed  to  the 
dropped  eyes  and  blushing  cheeks  of  the  pretty  nurse  across 
the  table. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

TO  Edward  Fillery,  the  deep  pain  of  frustration  baffling 
all  his  mental  processes,  the  end  had  come  with  a 
strange,  bewildering  swiftness.  He  knew  there  had  been 
a  prolonged  dislocation  of  his  being,  possibly,  even  a  partial 
loss  of  memory  with  regard  to  much  that  went  on  about 
him,  but  he  could  not,  did  not,  admit  that  no  value  or  reality 
had  attached  to  his  experiences.  The  central  self  in  him  had 
projected  a  limb,  an  arm,  that,  feeling  its  way  across  the 
confining  wall  of  the  prison  house,  groping  towards  an 
unbelievably  wonderful  revelation  of  new  possibilities,  had 
abruptly  now  withdrawn  again.  The  dissociation  in  his 
personality  was  over.  He  was,  in  other  words,  no  longer 
aware  of  "N.  H."  Like  Devonham,  he  now  did  not  "per- 
ceive" "N.  H.,"  but  only  LeVallon.  But,  unlike  Devonham, 
he  had  perceived  him.  .  .  . 

He  had  met  half-way  a  mighty  and  magnificent  Vision. 
Its  truth  and  beauty  remained  for  him  enduring.  The 
revelation  had  come  and  gone.  That  its  close  was  sudden, 
simple,  undramatic,  above  all  untheatrical,  satisfied  him. 
"N.  H."  had  "escaped,"  leaving  the  commonplace  LeVallon. 
in  his  place.  But,  at  least,  he  had  known  "N.  H." 

His  whole  being,  an  odd,  sweet,  happy  pain  in  him, 
yearned  ever  to  the  glorious  memory  of  it  all.  The  melan- 
choly, the  peculiar  shyness  he  felt,  were  not  without  an 
indefinite  pleasure.  His  nature  still  vibrated  to  those  haunt- 
ing and  inspiring  rhythms,  but  his  normal,  earthly  faculties, 
he  flattered  himself,  were  in  no  sense  permanently  dis- 
organized. Professionally,  he  still  cared  for  LeVallon,  dis- 
enchanted dust  though  he  might  be,  compared  to  "N. 
H."  .  .  .  He  approved  of  Devonham's  proposal  to  take  him 

367 


368  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

for  a  few  days  to  the  sea.  He  also  approved  of  Paul's 
advice  that  he  should  accept  Father  Collins'  invitation  to 
spend  a  day  or  two  at  his  country  cottage.  The  Khilkoffs 
would  be  there,  father  and  daughter.  The  Home,  in  charge 
of  an  assistant,  could  be  reached  in  a  few  hours  in  case  of 
need.  The  magic  of  Devonham's  wise,  controlling  touch 
lay  in  every  detail,  it  seemed.  .  .  . 

He  saw  the  trio — for  Nurse  Robbins  was  of  the  party — 
off  to  Seaford.  "The  final  touches  to  his  cure,"  Paul  men- 
tioned slyly,  with  a  smile,  as  the  guard  whistled.  But  of 
whose  cure  he  did  not  explain.  "He'll  bathe  in  the  sea,"  he 
added,  the  reference  obvious  this  time.  "And — when  we 
return — I  shall  be  best  man.  I've  already  promised !"  There 
was  a  triumph  of  skilled  wisdom  in  both  sentences. 

"The  time  isn't  ripe  yet,  Edward,  for  too  magnificent 
ideas.  And  your  ideas  have  been  a  shade  too  magnificent, 
perhaps."  He  talked  on  lightly,  even  carelessly.  And,  as 
usual,  there  was  purpose,  meaning,  "treatment" — his  friend 
easily  discerned  it  now — in  every  detail  of  his  attitude. 

Fillery  laughed.  Through  his  mind  ran  Povey's  sentence, 
"Never  argue  with  the  once-born !"  but  aloud  he  said,  "At 
any  rate,  I've  no  idea  that  I'm  Emperor  of  Japan  or — or 
the  Archangel  Gabriel !"  And  the  other,  pleased  and  satis- 
fied that  a  touch  of  humour  showed  itself,  shook  hands 
firmly,  affectionately,  through  the  window  as  the  train 
moved  off.  LeVallon  raised  his  hat  to  his  chief  and  smiled 
— an  ordinary  smile.  .  .  . 

With  the  speed  and  incongruity  of  a  dream  these  few 
days  slipped  by,  their  happenings  vivid  enough,  yet  all  set 
to  a  curiously  small  scale,  a  cramped  perspective,  blurred  a 
little  as  by  a  fading  light.  Only  one  thing  retained  its  bril- 
liance, its  intense  reality,  its  place  in  the  bigger  scale,  its 
vast  perspective  remaining  unchanged.  The  same  immense 
sweet  rhythm  swept  Iraida  and  himself  inevitably  together. 
Some  deep  obsession  that  hitherto  prevented  had  been  with- 
drawn. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  369 

She  had  called  that  very  morning — Paul's  touch  visible 
here  again,  he  believed,  though  he  had  not  asked.  He 
looked  on  and  smiled.  After  the  ordeal  of  breakfast  with 
Devonham  and  LeVallon  her  visit  was  announced.  It  was 
Paul,  after  a  little  talk  downstairs,  who  showed  her  in. 
With  the  radiance  of  a  spring  wild-flower  opening  to  the 
early  sunshine,  her  unexpected  visit  to  his  study  seemed 
clothed.  Unexpected,  yes,  but  surely  inevitable  as  well. 
With  the  sweet  morning  wind  through  the  open  window, 
it  seemed,  she  came  to  him,  the  letter  of  invitation  from 
Father  Collins  in  her  hand.  His  own  lay  among  his  cor- 
respondence, still  untouched.  Her  perfume  rose  about  him 
as  she  explained  something  he  hardly  heard  or  followed. 

"You'll  come,  Edward,  won't  you  ?    You'll  come  too." 

"Of  course,"  he  answered.  But  it  was  a  song  he  heard, 
and  no  dull  spoken  words.  She  ran  dancing  towards  him 
through  a  million  flowers;  her  hair  flew  loose  along  the 
scented  winds;  her  white  limbs  glowed  with  fire.  He 
danced  to  meet  her.  It  was  in  the  Valley  that  he  caught 
her  hands  and  met  her  eyes.  "It's  happened,"  he  heard 
himself  saying.  "It's  happened  at  last — just  as  you  said 
it  must.  Escape!  He  has  escaped!" 

"But  we  shall  follow  after — when  the  time  comes, 
Edward." 

"Where  the  wild  bee  never  flew!"  .  .  . 

"When  the  time  comes,"  she  repeated. 

Her  voice,  her  smile,  her  eyes  brought  him  back  sharply 
into  the  little  room.  The  furniture  showed  up  again.  The 
Valley  faded.  He  noticed  suddenly  that  for  the  first  time 
she  wore  no  flowers  in  her  dress  as  usual. 

"Iraida!"  he  exclaimed.    "Then — you  knew!" 

She  bent  her  head,  smiling  divinely.  She  took  both  his 
hands  in  hers.  At  her  touch  every  obstacle  between  them 
melted.  His  own  private,  personal  inhibition  he  saw  as  the 
trivial  barriers  a  little  child  might  raise.  His  complex 
against  humanity,  as  Paul  called  it,  had  disappeared.  Their 
minds,  their  beings,  their  natures  became  most  strangely 


370  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

one,  he  felt,  and  yet  quite  naturally.     There  was  nothing 
they  did  not  share. 

"With  the  first  dawn,"  he  heard  her  say  in  a  low  voice. 
"Never — never  again,"  he  seemed  to  hear,  "shall  we  destroy 
his — their — work  of  ages." 

"A  flower,"  he  whispered,  "has  no  need  to  wear  a  flower !" 
He  was  convinced  that  she  too  had  shared  an  experience 
similar  to  his  own,  perhaps  had  even  seen  the  bright,  mar- 
vellous Deva  faces  peering,  shining.  .  .  .  He  did  not  ask. 
She  said  no  more.  Life  flowed  between  them  in  an  un- 
troubled stream.  .  .  . 

Like  the  flow  of  a  stream,  indeed,  things  went  past  him, 
yet  with  incidents  and  bits  of  conversation  thus  picked  out 
with  vivid  sharpness.  The  dissociation  of  his  being  was 
still  noticeable  here  and  there,  he  supposed.  The  swell  after 
the  storm  took  time  to  settle  down.  Slowly,  however,  the 
waves  that  had  been  projected,  leaping  to  heaven,  returned 
to  the  safe,  quiet  dead  level  of  the  normal  calm.  .  .  .  The 
depths  lay  still  once  more.  And  his  melancholy  passed  a 
little,  lifted.  He  knew,  at  any  rate,  those  depths  were  now 
accessible. 

"I've  seen  over  the  wall  a  moment,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"Paul  is  both  right  and  wrong.  What  I've  seen  lies  too  far 
ahead  of  the  Race  to  be  intelligible  or  of  use.  I  should  be 
cast  out,  crucified,  my  other,  simpler  work  destroyed.  To 
control  rhythms  so  powerful,  so  different  to  anything  we 
now  know,  is  not  yet  possible.  They  would  shatter,  rather 
than  construct."  He  smiled  sadly,  yet  with  resignation. 
There  was  pain  and  humour  in  his  eyes.  "I  should  be 
regarded  as  a  Promethean  merely,  an  extremist  Promethean, 
and  probably  be  locked  up  for  contravening  some  County 
Council  bye-law  or  offending  Church  and  State.  That's 
where  he,  perhaps,  is  right — Paul!"  He  thought  of  him 
with  affection  and  pity,  with  understanding  love.  "How 
wise  and  faithful,  how  patient  and  how  skilled — within  his 
limits.  The  stable  are  the  useful ;  the  stable  are  the  leaders ; 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  371 

the  stable  rule  the  world.  People  with  steady  if  unvisioned 
eyes  like  Paul,  with  money  like  Lady  Gleeson.  .  .  .  But, 
oh !" — he  sighed — "how  slow,  ye  gods !  how  slow !"  .  .  . 

» 

The  visit  was  a  strange  one.  Nayan  sat  between  him  and 
her  father  in  the  motor.  It  was  not  far  from  London,  the 
ancient  little  house  among  the  trees  where  Father  Collins 
secreted  himself  from  time  to  time  upon  occasional 
"retreats." 

Within  the  grounds  it  might  have  been  the  centre  of  the 
New  Forest,  but  for  the  sound  of  tramcar  bells  that  some- 
times came  jangling  faintly  through  the  thick  screen  of 
leaves.  There  were  old-world  paved  courtyards  with  sweet 
playing  fountains,  miniature  lawns,  tangles  of  flowers,  small 
sunken  gardens  with  birds  of  cut  box  and  yew,  stone  nymphs, 
and  a  shaggy,  moss-grown  Pan,  whose  hand  that  once  held 
the  pipes  had  broken  off.  Suburbia  lay  outside,  yet,  by 
walking  wisely,  it  was  possible  to  move  among  these  delights 
for  half  an  hour,  great  trees  ever  rustling  overhead,  and  a 
clear  small  stream  winding  peacefully  in  and  out  with  gentle 
lapping  murmurs.  Nature  here  lay  undisturbed  as  it  had 
lain  for  centuries. 

The  little  ancient  house,  moreover,  seemed  to  have  grown 
up  with  the  green  things  out  of  the  soil,  so  naturally,  it 
all  belonged  together.  The  garden  ran  indoors,  it  seemed, 
through  open  doors  and  windows.  Butterflies  floated  from 
courtyard  into  drawing-room  and  out  again,  leaves  blew 
through  dining-room  windows,  scurrying  to  another  little  bit 
of  lawn ;  the  sun  and  wind,  even  the  fountains'  spray,  found 
the  walls  no  obstacle  as  though  unaware  of  them.  Bees 
murmured,  swallows  hung  below  the  eaves.  It  was,  indeed, 
a  healing  spot,  a  natural  retreat.  .  .  . 

"I  really  believe  the  river  rises  in  your  library,"  exclaimed 
Fillery,  after  a  tour  of  inspection  with  his  host,  "and  my 
bedroom  is  in  the  heart  of  that  big  chestnut  across  the  lawn. 
Do  my  feet  touch  carpet,  grass,  or  bark  when  I  get  out  of 
bed  in  the  morning?" 


372  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"I've  learnt  more  here,"  began  Father  Collins,  "than  at  all 
the  conferences  and  learned  meetings  I  ever  attended.  .  .  ." 

The  group  of  four  stood  in  the  twilight  by  the  playing 
fountain  where  the  dignified  stone  Pan  watched  the  paved 
little  court,  listening  to  the  splash  of  the  water  and  the  wind 
droning  among  the  leaves.  The  lap  of  the  winding  stream 
came  faintly  to  them.  The  stillness  cast  a  spell  about  them, 
dropping  a  screen  against  the  outer  world. 

"Hark!"  said  Father  Collins,  holding  a  curved  hand  to 
his  ear.  "You  hear  the  music  .  .  .  ?" 

"  'Why,  in  the  leafy  greenwood  lone 
Sit  you,  rustic  Pan,  and  drone 
On  a  dulcet  resonant  reed?'" 

He  paused,  peering  across  to  the  stone  figure  as  for  an 
answer.  All  stood  listening,  waiting,  only  wind  and  water 
breaking  the  silence.  The  bats  were  now  flitting;  overhead 
hung  the  saffron  arch  of  fading  sunset.  In  a  deep  ringing 
voice,  very  gruff  and  very  low,  Father  Collins  gave  the 
answer : 

"  'So  that  yonder  cows  may  feed 
Up  the  dewy  mountain  passes, 
Gathering  the  feathered  grasses.' 

"That's  Pan's  work,"  he  said,  laughing  pleasantly,  "Pan 
and  all  his  splendid  hierarchy.  Always  at  work,  though 
invisibly,  with  music,  colour,  beauty!  .  .  ." 

It  was  scraps  like  this  that  stood  out  in  Fillery's  memory, 
adding  to  his  conviction  that  Paul  had  enlisted  even  this 
strange  priest  in  his  deep-laid  plan.  .  .  . 

"Each  man  is  saturated  with  certain  ideas,  thoughts, 
phrases  in  a  line  of  his  own.  These  constitute  his  groove. 
To  go  outside  it  makes  him  feel  homeless  and  uncomfort- 
able. Accustomed  to  its  measurements  and  safe  within 
them,  he  interprets  all  he  hears,  reads,  observes,  according 
to  his  particular  familiar  shibboleths,  to  which,  as  to  a 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  373 

standard  of  infallible  criticism,  he  brings  slavishly  all  that 
is  offered  for  the  consideration  of  his  judgment.  A  new 
Idea  stands  little  chance  of  being  comprehended,  much  less 
adopted.  Tell  him  new  things  about  the  stars,  the  Stock 
Exchange,  the  Stigmata — up  crops  his  Standard  of  ap- 
proval or  disapproval.  He  cannot  help  himself.  His  judg- 
ment, based  upon  the  limited  content  of  his  groove,  operates 
automatically.  He  condemns.  An  entirely  new  idea  is 
barely  glanced  at  before  it  is  rejected  for  the  rubbish  heap. 
How,  then,  can  progress  come  swiftly  to  a  Race  composed 
of  such  individuals?  Mass-judgment,  herd-opinion  gov- 
erns everything.  He  who  has  original  ideas  is  outcast,  and 
dwells  lonely  as  the  moon.  How  slow,  ye  Gods !  How 
slow!"  .  .  . 

Only  Fillery  could  not  remember,  could  not  be  certain, 
whether  it  was  his  host  or  himself  that  used  the  words. 
Father  Collins,  as  usual,  was  saying  "all  sorts  of  things," 
but  addressed  himself  surely,  to  old  Khilkoff  most  of  the 
time,  the  Russian,  half  angry,  half  amused,  growling  out  his 
comments  and  replies  as  he  sat  smoking  heavily  and  enjoy- 
ing the  peaceful  night  scene  in  his  own  fashion.  .  .  . 

It  was  odd,  none  the  less,  how  much  that  the  wild  priest 
gabbled  coincided  with  his  own,  with  Fillery's,  thoughts  at 
the  moment.  A  peculiar  melancholy,  a  mood  of  shyness 
never  known  before,  lay  still  upon  him.  The  beauty  of  the 
silent  girl  beside  him  overpowered  him  a  little ;  too  wonder- 
ful to  hold,  to  own,  she  seemed.  Yet  they  were  deliciously, 
uncannily  akin.  All  his  former  self-created  denials  and 
suppressions,  hesitations  and  refusals  had  vanished.  "N. 
H." — He  wondered? — had  provided  him  with  the  fullest 
expression  he  had  ever  known.  A  boundless  relief  poured 
over  him.  He  was  aware  of  wholesome  desire  rising  behind 
his  old  high  admiration  and  respect.  .  .  . 

He  watched  her  once  standing  close  to  Pan's  broken  out- 
line among  the  shadows,  touching  the  mossy  arm  with  white 
fingers,  and  he  imagined  for  an  instant  that  she  held  the 
vanished  pipes. 


374  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

"After  an  experience  with  Other  Beings,"  Father  Collins's- 
endless  drone  floated  to  him,  "shyness,  they  say,  is  felt. 
Silence  descends  upon  the  whole  nature"  ...  to  which, 
a  little  later,  came  the  growling  comment  with  its  foreign 
accent:  "Talk  may  be  pleasurable — sometimes — but  it  is 
profitable  rarely.  .  .  ." 

The  talk  flowed  past  and  over  him,  occasional  phrases, 
like  islands  rising  out  of  a  stream,  inviting  his  attention 
momentarily  to  land  and  listen.  .  .  .  The  girl,  he  now  saw, 
no  longer  stood  beside  the  broken  stone  figure.  She  was 
wandering  idly  towards  the  farther  garden  and  the  trees. 

He  burned  to  rise  and  go  to  her,  but  something  held  him. 
What  was  it  ?  What  could  it  be  ?  Some  strange  hard  little 
obstacle  prevented.  Then,  suddenly,  he  knew  what  it  was 
that  stopped  him:  he  was  waiting  for  that  familiar  pet 
sentence.  Once  he  heard  that,  the  impetus  to  move,  the 
power  to  overcome  his  strange  shyness,  the  certainty  that 
his  whole  being  was  at  last  one  with  itself  again,  would  come 
to  him.  It  made  him  laugh  inwardly  while  he  recognized 
the  validity  of  the  detail — final  symptoms  of  the  obstructing 
inhibitions,  of  the  obstinate  original  complex. 

The  outline  of  the  girl  was  lost  now,  merged  in  the 
shadows  beyond.  He  stirred,  but  could  not  get  up  to  go.  A 
fury  of  impatience  burned  in  him.  Father  Collins,  he  felt, 
dawdled  outrageously.  He  was  talking — jawing,  Fillery 
called  it — about  extraordinary  experiences.  "Gradually,  as 
consciousness  more  and  more  often  extends,  the  organs  to 
record  such  extensions  will  be  formed,  you  see.  ...  If  our 
inventive  faculties  were  turned  inwards,  instead  of  out- 
wards for  gain  and  comfort  as  they  now  are,  we  might  know 
the  gods.  .  .  ." 

The  sculptor's  growl,  though  the  words  were  this  time 
inaudible,  had  a  bite  in  them.  The  other  voice  poured  on 
like  thick,  slow  oil: 

"What,  anyhow,  is  it,  then,  that  urges  us  on  in  spite  of 
all  obstacles,  denials,  failures  .  .  .  ?" 

Then  came  something  that  seemed  leading  up  to  the  pet 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  375 

sentence  that  was  the  signal  he  waited  for — nearer  to  it,  at" 
any  rate: 

".  .  .  It's  childish,  surely,  to  go  on  merely  seeking  more 
of  what  we  have  already.  We  should  seek  something 
new.  .  .  ." 

A  call,  it  seemed,  came  to  him  on  the  wind  from  the  dark 
trees.  But  still  he  could  not  move. 

But,  at  last,  out  of  a  prolonged  jumble  of  the  two  voices, 
one  growling,  the  other  high  pitched,  came  the  signal  he 
somehow  waited  for.  Even  now,  however,  the  speaker 
delayed  it  as  long  as  possible.  He  was  doing  it,  of  course, 
on  purpose.  This  was  intentional,  obviously. 

".  .  .  Yes,  but  a  thing  out  of  its  right  place  is  without 
power,  life,  means  of  expression — robbed  of  its  context 
which  alone  gives  it  meaning — robbed,  so  to  speak,  of  its 
arms  and  legs — without  a  body.  .  .  ." 

There,  at  least,  was  the  definite  proof  that  Father  Collins 
was  doing  this  of  deliberate,  set  purpose! 

"Go  on !  Yes,  but,  for  God's  sake,  say  it !  I  want  to  be 
off !"  Fillery  believed  he  shrieked  the  words,  but  apparently 
they  were  inaudible.  They  remained  unnoticed,  at  any  rate. 

".  .  .  Hence  the  value  of  order,  tidiness,  you  see.  Often 
a  misplaced  thing  is  invisible  until  replaced  where  it  be- 
longs. It  is,  as  we  say,  lost.  No  movement  is  meaningless, 
no  walk  without  purpose.  All  your  movements  tend  towards 
your  proper  place.  .  .  ." 

A  breeze  blew  the  fountain  spray  aside  so  that  its  splash- 
ing ceased  for  a  brief  second.  From  the  rustling  leaves 
beyond  came  a  faint  murmur  as  of  distant  piping.  But — 
into  the  second's  pause  had  leaped  the  pet  sentence: 

"Only  a  being  in  his  own  place  is  the  ruler  of  his  fate." 

The  signal !  He  was  aware  that  the  Russian  cleared  his 
throat  and  spat  unmusically,  aware  also  that  Father  Collins, 
a  queer  smile  just  discernible  on  his  face  in  the  gloom, 
turned  his  head  with  a  gesture  that  might  well  have  been 
an  understanding  nod.  Both  sound  and  gesture,  however, 
were  already  behind  him.  He  was  released.  He  was  across 


376  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

the  paved  courtyard,  past  the  fountain,  past  the  stone  figure 
of  the  silent  old  rough  god — and  oft0 ! 

And  as  he  went,  finding  his  way  instinctively  among  the 
dark  trees,  that  pet  sentence  went  with  him  like  a  clarion 
call,  as  though  sweet  piping  music  played  it  everywhere 
about  him.  A  thousand  memories  shut  down  with  a  final 
snap.  In  the  stage  of  his  mind  came  a  black-out  upon  a 
host  of  inhibitions.  There  was  an  immense  and  glorious 
sense  of  relief  as  though  bitter  knots  were  suddenly  dis- 
entangled, and  some  iron  kernel  of  resistance  that  had 
weighted  him  for  years  flowed  freely  at  last  in  a  stream  of 
happy  molten  gold.  .  .  . 

He  found  her  easily.  Where  the  trees  thinned  at  the 
farther  edge  he  saw  her  figure,  long  before  he  came  up  with 
her,  outlined  against  the  fading  saffron.  He  saw  her  turn. 
He  saw  her  arms  outstretched.  He  came  up  with  her  the 
same  minute,  and  they  stood  in  silence  for  a  long  time, 
watching  the  darkness  bend  and  sink  upon  the  landscape. 

For,  here,  at  this  one  edge  of  the  tiny  estate,  the  real 
open  country  showed.  Beyond  them,  in  the  twilight,  lay 
the  silent  fields  like  a  gigantic  brown  and  yellow  carpet 
whose  shaken  folds  still  seemed  to  tremble  and  run  on 
beneath  the  growing  moon.  Along  a  farther  ridge  the  trees 
and  hedges  passed  in  a  ragged  procession  of  strange  figures, 
defined  sharply  against  the  sky — witches,  queens  and  gob- 
lins on  the  prowl,  the  ancient  fairyland  of  the  English  coun- 
tryside. 

They  still  stood  silent,  side  by  side,  touching  almost,  their 
heat  and  perfume  and  atmosphere  intermingling,  looking  out 
across  the  quiet  scene.  He  was  aware  that  her  mind  stole 
into  his  most  sweetly,  and  that  without  knowing  it  his  hand 
had  found  her  own,  and  that,  presently,  she  leaned  a  little 
against  him.  Their  eyes,  their  mental  sight  as  well,  saw  the 
same  things,  he  knew.  The  first  stars  peeped  out,  and  they 
looked  up  at  them  as  one  being  looks,  together. 

"The  wonder  that  you  saw — in  him,"  he  heard  himself 
saying.  It  was  a  statement,  not  a  question. 


THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER  377 

"Was  yourself,  of  course,"  her  voice,  like  his  own,  in  the 
rustle  of  the  leaves,  came  softly.  It  continued  his  own 
thought  rather  than  replied  to  it.  "The  part  you've  held 
down  and  hidden  away  all  these  years." 

Her  divination  came  to  him  with  staggering  effect.  "You 
always  knew  then  ?" 

"Always.  The  first  day  we  met  you  took  me  into  the 
firm." 

He  was  aware  that  everything  about  him  pulsed  and 
throbbed  with  life,  intelligence  in  every  stick  and  stone. 
Angelic  beings  marched  on  their  wondrous  business 
through  the  sky.  A  mighty  host  pursued  their  endless 
service  with  a  network  of  huge  and  tiny  rhythms.  The 
spirals  of  creative  fire  soared  and  danced.  .  .  . 

The  moon  emerged,  sailing,  sailing,  as  though  no  wind 
could  stop  her  lovely  flight.  She  fled  the  stars  themselves. 
The  clouds  turned  round  to  look  at  her,  as,  clearing  their 
hair,  she  passed  onwards  with  her  radiant  smile.  Heading 
into  the  bare  bosom  of  the  sky,  she  blazed  in  her  triumph  of 
loneliness,  her  icy  prow  set  towards  some  far,  unknown, 
unearthly  goal,  which  is  the  reason  why  men  love  her  so. 

"And  my  theories — our  theories?"  he  murmured  into  the 
ear  against  his  lips.  "The  way  that  has  been  shown  to  us  ?" 

Both  arms  were  now  about  her,  and  he  held  her  so  close 
that  her  words  were  but  a  warm  perfumed  breath  to  cover 
his  face  as  her  hair  was  covering  his  eyes. 

"We  shall  follow  it  together  .  .  .  dear." 

It  was  as  if  some  angel,  stepping  down  the  sky,  came  near 
enough  to  fold  them  in  a  great  rhythm  of  fire  and  wind. 
Bright,  mighty  faces  in  a  crowd  rose  round  them,  and, 
through  her  hair,  he  saw  familiar  visible  outlines  of  all  the 
common  things  melt  out,  showing  for  one  gorgeous  instant 
the  flashings  and  whirlings  that  was  the  workshop  of  Their 
deathless  service. 

"Look!  Look!"  he  whispered,  pointing  from  the  dark- 
ening earth  to  the  stars  and  sailing  moon  above.  "They're 


378  THE  BRIGHT  MESSENGER 

everywhere!  You  can  see  them  too?  The  bright  messen- 
gers ?" 

For  answer,  she  came  yet  closer  against  his  side,  holding 
him  more  tightly  to  her,  lifting  her  lips  to  his,  so  that  in  her 
very  eyes  he  saw  the  marvellous  fire  shine  and  flash.  "We 
shall  build  together,  you  and  I,"  she  whispered  very  softly, 
"and  with  Their  help,  the  sweetest  and  most  perfect  body 
ever  known.  .  .  ." 

But  behind  the  magic  of  her  words  and  voice,  behind 
their  meaning  and  the  steadying,  understanding  sympathy 
he  easily  divined,  he  heard  another  sound,  familiar  as  a 
dream,  yet  fraught  with  some  haunting  significance  he 
already  was  forgetting — almost  had  entirely  forgotten. 
From  the  centre  of  the  earth  it  seemed  to  rise,  a  magnifi- 
cent, deep,  stupendous  rhythm  that  created,  at  least,  the 
impression  of  a  voice : 

"I  weave  and  I  weave  ...  !"  rolled  forth,  as  though 
the  planet  uttered.  He  stood  waiting,  transfixed,  listening 
intently. 

"You  heard?"  he  whispered. 

"Everything,"  she  said,  tigh^/in  his  arms  at  once  again, 
her  lips  on  his.  "The  very  beating  of  your  heart — your 
inmost  thoughts  as  well." 


THE  END 


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